


Against All Odds

by momatu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beauxbatons, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Flying Instructor Draco Malfoy, France (Country), H/D Pottermore Fair 2015, Harry Potter is Teddy Lupin's Godfather, M/M, Paris (City), Post-Hogwarts, Professor Draco Malfoy, Romance, Seeker Harry Potter, Sightseeing, Summer School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 53,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4872247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momatu/pseuds/momatu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beauxbatons is hosting the first ever Quidditch Summer School for children from all over Europe, and Harry has promised to enroll Teddy as his birthday present.  Meanwhile, Draco is stuck in his office, putting together the first ever Quidditch Summer School for children from all over Europe during, when he should be enjoying summer holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has helped get this story written: the fabulous Bryoney for all of her beta work, _las très magnifique_ lamerezouille _et_ cloelockless2 for the French translations and all things French, the super tavia_d for britpicking this for me, and all brilliant Brits on hd_britglish for all their advice and suggestions. Any remaining mistakes are all my fault. Also, thank you to our wonderful mods for their exceptional patience with me and their hard work on organizing this year's, and every year's, hd-fan-fair and, of course, to my lovely prompter for submitting a prompt that totally claimed me. I hope you enjoy the trip your prompt took me on as much as I have.
> 
> One note, a specific request of the prompter was Draco speaking fluent French, so I've really been asking a lot of lamerezouille and cloelockless2. I'm not including translations in my notes, but the gist of what's said should either be made by the surrounding narrative, or the dialogue is not critical to the plot. If what's being said is important or not made clear by the narrative, it'll be in English.
> 
> I tried to research Paris as much as possible. The cafe Harry and Draco eat at is a real place in _Le Marais_. According to more than one poster on Trip Advisor, the chef really is Japanese, and Draco's recommendations were taken from comments people had posted. _Le Marais_ has the reputation of being very gay friendly. The _Hotel de la Rose Rouge_ is fictional but based on two real hotels in Paris. The lobby is based on the lobby of the _Hotel du Lys_ and the rooftop terrace is based on the rooftop terrace a the _Hotel Raphael_. According to several pictures I found online, you really can see both the _Arc de Triomphe_ and the Eiffel Tower. The _Lac des Champs Elysées_ is based on several pictures I found online of lakes in the Pyrenees.

.~*~.

When a person looks at a photograph, they see a few short moments in time captured on film and printed on paper, moments which will repeat over and over in a potentially endless cycle. What they do not see are all the countless moments that led up to the ones captured and preserved, ones that came and went, witnessed only by those directly involved. One may comment on the handsome, happy faces or the beauty of the scenery. One does not comment on the long string of choices and decisions that brought the subjects of the photo to that particular time and place—or if they do, it is likely to be only fleetingly and on rare occasions. Perhaps because of the very nature of a photograph, the endless repetition of the captured moments, it is all too easy to fall into the mistaken assumption that it was as inevitable that those moments should occur in the first place as that they are repeated time and again. Because they repeat in front of our eyes time and time again, it is too easy to forget the unlikelihood that they ever happened at all.

In a villa in _la Côte d'Azur_ , in the centre of a mantelpiece made of ornately carved white marble, stood a silver-framed photograph of two people looking at each other and smiling. It was one of several that lined the top of the mantel and covered the walls, each one depicting moments that could so easily never have happened had their subjects made any one of a number of choices differently. In fact, the chances that those moments might occur were once so slim, one might have said they were nonexistent. But they would have been wrong. Against all odds, the events those photographs depicted did happen, and the lives of their subjects were all the happier for them.

.~*~.

_AGAINST ALL ODDS_

.~*~.

The bright afternoon sun hurt Harry’s eyes as he looked up into the sky, and he squinted, raising his hand to shield them, not wanting to lose sight of the young flyer racing in hot pursuit of the Snitch. His godson, Teddy, lived for Quidditch. The boy could spend hours chasing after his training Snitch, catching and releasing it over and over, and Harry loved watching him. He would have supported any interest his godson developed, but that they shared a mutual love of the same sport—and the same position at that—was a source of real joy to him.

On the other hand, it was just that shared love and enthusiasm that led him to the predicament in which he now found himself. 

“There’s no way out of it, is there?” he asked the witch sitting beside him. After his short-lived career as a professional Seeker with the Chudley Cannons, Harry had found a cottage in the West Country with a lot of land. The elderly wizard who’d owned it hadn’t lived there for ages, and it had been almost falling down when Harry’d bought it, but pitching in with the rebuilding of Hogwarts after the war had taught him all the construction spells and charms he’d needed to put it to rights. He loved that with all the land that came with it and numerous concealment charms, it was perfect for flying. He had a patio at the back of the cottage overlooking his garden, where he was currently sat with Andromeda as Teddy flew after the Snitch twenty feet off the ground. Next to Harry, Andromeda was rocking slowly and knitting a blue and white baby blanket, a gift for his best friends’ new little one. “I mean, I did promise,” he said.

Andromeda looked up and, like Harry, screened her eyes from the bright sun. She shook her head and smiled fondly. “Afraid not. He’s so looking forward to it. It’s all he’s been talking about.” She glanced sideways at him, and Harry knew what she was thinking. She often told him he worried too much. It was always hard when a child left home for the first time, Harry knew, but in Teddy’s case there was more to worry about than with other children. His father’s lycanthropy was no secret, and people could be cruel. Who Harry was, combined with Teddy’s late parents’ status as fallen war heroes, prevented a good deal of the open vitriol and prejudice he would have otherwise faced as the son of a werewolf, but they all knew there were whispers behind their backs. There had even been a time or two when nasty comments and questions as to the wisdom of allowing the offspring of a werewolf to attend Hogwarts had been unwittingly uttered within earshot of one of their own. 

However, there came a time to let a child stand on his own, no matter how dearly you wanted to hold on tight, otherwise they would pull away all the harder. Teddy was a strong, independent little boy, and he was ten now. This time next year they’d be awaiting his Hogwarts letter, whether some people liked it or not. This new Quidditch Summer School they’d started in France was a good chance for him to be on his own, without having to be entirely alone. “Your friend Viktor will be there, of course,” she pointed out. 

Harry nodded silently as he continued to watch his godson fly. Knowing the Bulgarian superstar was one of the retired pro players volunteering their time as an instructor at the school gave Harry a welcomed sense of security. Teddy would have someone to turn to, someone he knew. But Harry still worried. It had always been him Teddy had turned to, and he wasn’t ready to relinquish the position to someone else just yet.

If he was being honest, Harry knew that was part of what was troubling him. Teddy would be gone for two whole weeks. Why had he had to promise the Quidditch school to Teddy for a birthday present? Since the first time he’d set eyes on his godson, Harry’d never been away from him for that long, not even during the two years he’d played professional Quidditch before his cover had been blown. It felt like it was only yesterday he’d held his godson for the first time, and now Teddy was ten already. How the years had gone by so fast, Harry couldn’t imagine, but he didn’t want to let go of him any earlier than he had to. 

As he watched Teddy fly, Harry’s Seeker’s eyes caught the familiar glint of gold just before Teddy did. He changed direction sharply and was off. Watching his godson, Harry felt almost the same thrill, the same rush of adrenaline as if he himself was up there racing after the little winged ball, and he leant forward in his seat, his eyes wide and his fingers flexing as if wanting to wrap around the Snitch themselves. He was mostly content with his new job—he found he rather enjoyed working behind the scenes, even if there wasn’t quite as much for him to do as others might suppose—but nothing beat flying competitively. He felt himself leaning into a turn with Teddy. _Come on, come on!_ The Snitch abruptly changed direction and eluded Teddy for a short while before he caught sight of it again. After a short chase, he caught it, and his hand thrust into the air in celebration. 

Harry touched the tip of his wand to his throat and shouted, “Well done, mate!” his voice amplified several times over.

On the table beside Harry lay the brochure for the school. He picked it up and glanced at it before returning his attention skyward. Teddy was just landing, a wide grin splitting his face. 

Harry looked back down to the brochure. The Beauxbatons Quidditch Pitch dominated the front cover, while in the distance stood the gleaming white Beauxbatons Palace, surrounded by beautifully manicured gardens. Why had he promised Quidditch school as a birthday present, Harry had asked himself moments ago? He knew very well why—if such a thing had existed when he’d been young, he’d have given all the gold in his vault to go. 

“Did you see that!” Teddy asked breathlessly as he flopped down in a chair next to Harry. He sat back, his long arms stretched out on the arm rests and his broom propped on the empty chair beside him. His face was pink and had a sheen of sweat. He leant forward and poured himself a glass of lemonade, which he drank straight down. 

Harry reached over and ruffled Teddy’s hair. “Brilliant job.” 

“Lost sight of it for a bit there,” Teddy said, “but I soon found it again. What kind of drills do you think Mr Krum will set up for us?” he asked excitedly. With a childlike thrill to his voice he added, “George told me Mr Krum told him that at Durmstrang, the captain makes new Seekers try-out while the Beaters hit Bludgers covered in spikes at them.”

Andromeda lowered her needles and sighed as she cast a stern look at Harry, who flinched under the weight of her disapproval. If he’d told George Weasley not to tell Teddy such nonsense once . . . 

“What’s Rule Number One?” Harry asked Teddy.

“I know, I know,” Teddy said, disappointment lacing his words. “Never listen to anything George says.” He sat quietly, but Harry was sure he was contemplating the possibility of Beaters really aiming spike-covered Bludgers at prospective Seekers.

.~*~. 

That night, long after Teddy and Andromeda had gone home, Harry’s fears regarding problems others might cause for Teddy due to Remus’ having been a werewolf continued to prey on him, until finally, after a brief debate, he reached for a fresh roll of parchment and began to compose a short letter to the director of the school.

.~*~. 

Nestled in a valley within the Pyrenees Mountains between Spain and France stood a beautiful 700-year-old palace fit for any fairy tale princess to call home. Tall, white towers stretched skyward, their windows offering majestic views, their walls adorned with richly coloured tapestries. High within one of those towers sat not a princess, but a wizard—a wizard who was, at that very moment, cursing the very existence of a certain Muggle Studies professor.

Draco Malfoy sat in his office, his elbows on his desk, his fingers massaging his temples. A headache was forming behind his eyes. He was a Flying Instructor and Quidditch Referee, not an administrator, and at that moment, he should have been at his villa enjoying his summer holiday, not in his office with piles of parchments in front of him.

 _Si elle pense que c’est une idée si géniale, c’est elle qui devrait sacrifier une partie de ses vacances d'été pour s’en occuper_ , he told himself for the hundredth time. 

Madame Canfield, their wonderful American Muggle Studies professor, had blathered on and on to the Minister of Education at a function before the start of the school term last year about her experiences as a child in the Muggle world at what she called summer camp and lamented the lack of similar programmes for young witches and wizards. Several Muggle-born Ministry employees had joined in about similar experiences they’d had as children, and by the end of the evening, the lot of them were agreeing wholeheartedly that such a programme should be implemented at Beauxbatons, without so much as consulting the Headmistress or taking into consideration the realities of running such a programme. So there Draco sat, a week after the end of term, preparing to receive a couple of hundred nine and ten year olds—most, if not all, of whom would never have been away from their parents before—in addition to a score of retired Quidditch stars, half of whom clearly believed they did the broom a favour by flying on it, while Madame Canfield enjoyed Paris or Milan or New York or wherever the hell she’d gone. But grumble as he may, Draco had never complained to the Headmistress, nor would he ever. The life he and his mother had built for themselves after they’d left England following their trials was thanks, in large part, to her hiring him, and he was far too grateful to give her any flack. 

Draco rubbed his forehead. Students and instructors combined, he was looking at a group that spoke perhaps over dozen languages. He ran his hand over his face as he made a mental note to check in with _Monsieur_ Lartigue to make sure all the necessary translation charms would be in place. A significant portion of the Beauxbatons grounds would be used for instructions and practice, and a myriad of translation charms would need to cover every square centimetre. At least, he told himself not for the first time, being busy kept his mind focused on things he could control rather than things he could not. 

Bearing that thought in mind and taking a deep breath, he eyed the stacks of parchments in front of him. He was rather surprised with the number of students who’d been enrolled. He hadn’t expected nearly this many, but perhaps he should’ve. The chance to be coached in Quidditch by some of the biggest names in the game over the past twenty years? When Draco was ten, he’d have thrown one hell of a tantrum had his parents not allowed him to go. 

He picked up the next parchment on the pile. On top of the practical matters in running a first of its kind Summer Quidditch School, there were also _les papas et les mamans_ to be contended with. It was amazing how many parents had sent in letters telling him exaggerated stories of how skilled _leur petit chérubin_ was on a broom. Draco had been the flying instructor at Beauxbatons long enough to know what one could reasonably expect children of that age to be capable of on a broom. He was rather glad he wasn’t the Head of House for the first years, if this was any indication of what the person went through every September.

 _De Grande-Bretagne . . . D'Angleterre_ , he observed as he looked at the letter in his hand.

Draco had been living in France since immediately after his trial nearly ten years ago, better than a third of his life. It had been a long time since he had really thought of England in any meaningful way. He was content with his life as it was—recent events notwithstanding—but with every letter from across the Channel, it was as if a voice from his past blew in through his window. With a heavy weight settling in his chest, he began to read. Would this be the letter that bore the signature of someone he’d known? 

With every word, the weight in his chest crumbled and fell to his stomach in pieces, the heaviness burning like too many shots of too strong liquor. This letter was from someone he’d known alright. Draco dropped it onto his desk and pressed his hands together in front of his face as if in prayer.

Potter.

Draco was taken completely by surprise. Potter’s was not a name he’d expected to see. The school was for nine and ten year olds only, and Merlin knew ten years ago, Potter had hardly been in a position to be procreating. What had he and Granger been getting up to during their year on the run, Draco asked himself with a smirk as he picked up the letter, but the reason the other wizard was writing was made clear soon enough. This was no mere fancy or expectation of preferential treatment.

_Qu'en dis-tu, Draco? Accèpterais-tu de garder leurs louveteaux?_

The remembered hiss of the sibilant voice echoed inside Draco’s head and made his stomach roll. He felt as if he’d had a particularly bad flying accident and landed on the ground flat on his back with no cushioning charm to soften the blow. He could still hear the barking, jeering laughter of all those gathered in his childhood home, see their gleeful,taunting faces, hear the banging of their fists on the table . . . Draco shuddered . . . the dining table at which he had sat down to everyday family dinners and formal holiday celebrations for the first fourteen years of his life but above which had then hung . . . He shuddered again, but shook it off. 

He stood and crossed his office to stand at the window and look out across the Beauxbatons grounds. Until that moment, he’d had no idea a child had been born from his cousin’s marriage, and was sure his mother was equally unaware. The Order had done a good job of keeping the pregnancy secret during the war, and afterwards—afterwards didn’t bear thinking about.

Teddy Lupin. One of only three people alive to whom Draco was related by blood. The son of the cousin whose name had never been mentioned in Draco’s home growing up and his former Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. 

A werewolf.

And Potter was the boy’s godfather. Well, Draco thought to himself, he could certainly understand Potter’s concerns. Draco didn’t doubt for a moment a larger segment of society would see the boy’s father as a werewolf first and a war hero second, if at all, than would see it the other way around. 

_Accèpterais-tu de garder leurs louveteau?_ The words burned themselves into Draco’s eardrums like white-hot pokers until he silenced them. He’d been a boy when those words had been spoken in ridicule and had terrified him, but that was a long time ago.

“ _Oui_ ,” Draco said out loud. “ _Il est le bienvenu ici, et que ceux qui pensent le contraire aillent se faire voir_.” 

He returned to his desk and began his response.

.~*~. 

Two days later, Harry Potter was standing in his kitchen, an untasted cup of tea in his hand as he looked out the window. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and he yawned. He’d dreamt that Teddy had arrived at Beauxbatons, bright eyed and thrilled to be there, only to be turned away. The condescending “Ah, but ‘ad we but known . . .” of the faceless wizard from his dream still rang in his ears.

They’d been enjoying a stretch of warm, sunny weather recently, and the sky above was pale blue and perfectly clear. Not a single cloud could be seen for miles in any direction. As Harry stood staring out the window not drinking his tea and hardly noticing the weather, a single dark speck against the background of uninterrupted blue caught his well-trained eye. It was so small, that for one brief moment he mistook it for a bit of dirt on the glass until the speck began to get bigger. 

An owl. 

Setting his tea down hastily, Harry hurried outside. He received very few owls at his home; most often, his friends and business associates contacted him by Floo. This had to be the expected response from his letter to the director of the Quidditch school.

The bird was a pale barn owl with a distinctly heart-shaped face and dark eyes it fixed on Harry expectantly as it landed on his patio table. He rushed forward and retrieved the letter from the owl’s leg, tearing it open unceremoniously.

_Dear Mr Potter:  
I am taking this opportunity to write to you regarding the concerns you expressed in your letter and assure you that, while certainly understandable, your fears are unnecessary. At Beauxbatons, we pride ourselves on the fact that any magical child who wishes to learn has always been, and always will be, welcome._

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The letter went on for a few more lines, but a reproachful hoot from the delivery owl startled him and pulled his attention from the rest of what had been written. The critical gleam in the owl’s unblinking eyes reminded Harry of a hotel bellboy he’d once seen in a Muggle film, standing with his white-gloved hand held out and rubbing his fingers together after bringing a guest’s luggage to his room.

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed. He jumped up, the letter clutched tightly in his hand. “Right. Sorry.” He kept a supply of owl treats in his garden shed for the rare times he received something through the post, and he fetched the bird a large handful, tossing them on the patio and telling the bird to enjoy.

Harry watched the bird eat, not missing a single crumb, before taking off into the sky again. A nice cuppa was sounding much better to him now than it had before, and he returned to his kitchen. Some eggs and bacon sounded good, too. Harry was surprised to find just how hungry he was all of a sudden. Maybe some sausages and fried bread as well, do it up right. With the help of a few handy greenhouse spells, he already had some lovely tomatoes nice and ripe in his vegetable garden . . .

It wasn’t until after Harry had made and eaten a large breakfast that he returned his attention to his letter from Beauxbatons. After the part he’d been most interested in, there was a sentence or two about his payment having been deducted from his account at Gringotts—nothing he hadn’t already known there. Another line explained that an information packet would be sent to the parents or guardians of all confirmed students in a few days’ time—again, that was something he’d already known. The registration form had stated as much. Harry read on. The school’s cancellation and refund policy was explained—something that had also been on the reservation form.

In the last lines of the letter, the school’s director had reiterated his prior assurances, going so far as to say that the writer was personally looking forward to welcoming Teddy to the school.

Having received the assurances he had wanted, Harry had already begun to lower the letter when the name of the writer fully registered with him. After a double take that would have been funny to see had anyone been there to see it, he sat and stared at the signature. 

_Respectfully Yours,_  
_Draco Malfoy  
Flying Instructor, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic_

Malfoy. Now there was a name Harry had neither heard nor thought of for ages. There had been a couple of times immediately following the war when he’d wondered where Malfoy and his mother had gone, but never in anything more than a passing way, and it had been several years now since he’d given the other wizard a second thought. To suddenly encounter the man again was rather a surprise.

Harry reread the letter a second time. He couldn’t deny that every word read sincerely. It struck Harry that it was Malfoy who’d stated so unequivocally that he personally looked forward to welcoming Teddy—the grandson of his mother’s disowned sister. 

_Still . . ._

Harry rubbed a hand over his forehead then rested his head in his palm. He wasn’t proud of it, but he had to admit he wasn’t sure how he felt about Teddy attending a programme run by Malfoy. Moreover, he had no idea how Andromeda would feel. Not once in the last ten years had she mentioned her sister or nephew. She might well refuse to allow Teddy anywhere near Malfoy.

The sudden chiming of his Floo announcing a caller pulled Harry from his thoughts, and he looked at his watch, afraid he’d lost track of time. He had a big afternoon planned, and being late for Rose would never do. It was okay, though. It was barely gone eleven o’clock, and he wasn’t expecting her till half past. He had plans for him and his best girl that afternoon, and he grinned in anticipation. 

A woman’s voice called to him from the flickering emerald green flames.

“I’m here,” he responded as he crossed the room.

“I know it’s a little early, but someone’s anxious to see her Harry. She’s been asking if it was time to go since she opened her eyes this morning,” Hermione explained. “Is it alright if I bring her over now?”

Rose Weasley was his best friends’ firstborn and his goddaughter. They’d had their second child recently, a little boy they’d called Hugo, and Harry’d promised to watch big sister Rose for the day so they could have one some one-on-one time with the new baby—and maybe the hope of catching up on some sleep when he napped. 

Harry answered that it was fine, and a moment later the flickering flames shot six feet tall and Hermione stepped out of the Floo with a small child held in her arms.

“My Hawwy!” three-year-old Rose Weasley exclaimed, giggling and bouncing in her mother’s arms as she stretched her hands out for Harry. 

Hermione set her daughter down, and the moment her purple, light-up trainer clad feet touched the ground, she sprinted into Harry’s arms.

“You my Hawwy,” she said, poking him in the nose with her finger.

“You my Rosie,” he replied, grinning and touching the tip of her nose.

“You my Hawwy,” she said again, putting her hands flat on his cheeks and squeezing Harry’s face.

“You my Rosie,” Harry said. He kissed her chin before setting her down and giving her a pat on the bum.

“I heard from the Quidditch school this morning,” he said to Hermione, his tone and expression conveying more than his words had.

“Oh,” she said with a quick glance at her daughter, who had begun digging through a box of her toys Harry kept in his living room as if she was searching for buried treasure. “Don’t tell me they—”

“No,” Harry said quickly. He could see his friend’s hackles rising, ready for a fight. “The director said he was personally looking forward to welcoming Teddy.” As he spoke, Harry gave her a very pointed look. He enjoyed Hermione’s confused expression for a moment—it wasn’t one he was accustomed to seeing.

“Oh,” she said again. “Well, that’s good then. What’s the problem?”

Harry exhaled. He scratched the back of his head. Was he making dragons out of flobberworms? “I don’t know that there is one,” he said. “I may be making something out of nothing. Tell me what you think,” he said as he handed her the letter.

Hermione began reading, the confusion on her face increasing with every line. She read the last few sentences out loud and held the parchment out for Harry to take. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Read the rest.”

“There is no more.”

“Yes, there is.”

Hermione looked at the parchment again, flipping it over.

“The signature,” Harry said. “Read the signature.”

“Draco—oh.” Hermione’s face went slack. “Oh,” she repeated, staring at the parchment much the same as Harry had done.

“Exactly. Oh.”

Hermione pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and hesitated before saying, “Yes, that does rather—well, not change things, or rather, it shouldn’t, but . . . It is a surprise. Have you told Andromeda?” she asked.

“It’s only just come.”

The two friends were quiet; the only sounds to be heard were Rosie playing with a doll, brushing its hair and telling it all about the animals at the zoo she would see with her Harry that afternoon. 

Hermione was one of his oldest friends, and Harry valued her opinion over anyone else’s. He’d testified in Malfoy’s defence at his trial ten years ago, but this was something different. “Does it? Does Malfoy running the thing matter? It shouldn’t, but does it?”

She didn’t answer. Her hand moved to her right forearm, where Harry knew a scar spelling out the word “Mudblood” could still be seen if the light hit it at the right angle. He was sure the movement was subconscious. His hand sometimes drifted to one of his own scars, too.

After nearly a full minute, she shook her head slowly, but resolutely. “No. No, it doesn’t.” She held the letter out for him to take back.

Watching his goddaughter play, Harry took the letter from her and nodded his head in agreement. Ultimately, it would be Andromeda’s final decision—Teddy was Harry’s godson, but she was his grandmother and legal guardian. But for Harry, his decision had been made.

.~*~. 

“ _Tu as fait du très bon travail_ ,” Narcissa said to her son, her arm folded through his as they strolled along a path through the gardens surrounding Beauxbatons. All around them, construction crews were busy transforming a sizeable portion of the extensive grounds from their normal expanse of lush green lawns to the score of temporary, quarter-sized Quidditch pitches needed to hold practices for all the students who’d been enrolled. Where his mother and he walked, though, there was only the sound of gravel crunching under their feet, the sounds of construction drowned out by row after row of neatly groomed hedges. The familiar sound of footfalls on a gravel path reminded Draco of days spent running through the gardens at Malfoy Manor as a child. People spoke different languages from one country to the next, but the sounds that surrounded them daily, whether the song of a bird or wind chimes blowing in the breeze or gravel crunching underfoot, were the same.

 _Mon dieu!_ , Draco thought to himself. It was not like him to get hung up on such romantic nonsense. “ _Je peux ne m’attribuer tout le mérite_ ,” he replied as his mother stopped to admire some tall, rich purple irises. Not that he’d ever taken particular note whilst living there, but he rather thought there had been some just like those in the gardens at the manor. “ _Il y a beaucoup de gens impliqués dans l'organisation._ ” 

 

“ _Bien entendu. Je veux bien le croire_ ,” she agreed. Something in his expression must’ve caught her attention. She had been about to say something else but it died on her tongue, and she studied him for several long seconds. “Darling, you are not still thinking of François, I hope,” she said in a tone that was simultaneously both blunt and regretful. “I had hoped that with so much to attend to, you might have put him out of your mind.”

Draco’s jaw clenched at the mere mention of the man’s name, but no, he hadn’t been thinking about François. Potter’s letter had become the more dominant distraction. “ _Non_.”

“Then what is troubling you? It’s no good denying it. Problems with your retired Quidditch players? I know you anticipated difficulties there.”

He didn’t answer immediately, but he knew he must. It was, after all, the reason he’d owled his mother to come have lunch with him today. “I received a letter regarding a student two days ago. From England,” he eventually said as they continued down the path. 

“I see.” Narcissa turned her eyes away and kept her focus straight ahead, but the tightening of her arm around his betrayed the emotion that she did not otherwise allow to show. “I’m sure you have received several. This particular one stands out in some way?”

“Perhaps we should sit down,” he suggested as he gestured towards a stone bench just in front of them.

“Oh, my,” Narcissa said. “If I need to sit down, it must stand out rather significantly.” 

“Rather, yes.”

Sitting herself and adjusting her robes to give her hands something to do and her eyes somewhere to look, she said, “Alright. I’m seated.”

Draco inhaled and said, point blank, “It was from Potter.”

Narcissa’s surprise showed clearly on her face for a split second, but she regained her well-practised look of indifference quickly. “Mr Potter? Indeed? Well, that is a surprise. I’d no idea he had a child that age.”

“He doesn’t. The letter was concerning his godson.”

“A Weasley, no doubt.”

“No. Not a Weasley.” Draco pulled the letter from the inside breast pocket of his robe. “A Black,” he said.

Narcissa’s shock was too great even for her self-control to mask, and her hand flew to her mouth.

“Although . . . regretfully brief . . . it seems my cousin’s union produced a child.” Draco held the letter out for her to take, and she snatched it from him.

Other than the rapid movement of her eyes as they darted across the lines, Narcissa was motionless as she read. Three times she read the letter before slowly refolding it. She lay her hands on her lap, still holding Potter’s letter. Her eyes stared at a topiary beside the matching stone bench directly opposite them.

Draco had known the letter would affect her; however, it seemed he’d underestimated just how much. If his mother showed even an inch of distress, she felt a mile. He tried to imagine how he would feel in her circumstances had he had a brother or sister. Perhaps he ought not to have told her. It wasn’t as if anything had changed with the arrival of Potter’s letter. The other man hadn’t even known to whom he’d been writing, and now that he did—Draco was certain Potter would have received his response by now—it was likely Draco would be receiving notice of the boy’s withdrawal from the school very shortly. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have—” Draco began to say.

“ _Non_ ,” Narcissa cut him off. She gave him a small smile and reached out for his hand, holding it tightly before releasing it again. “ _Justes cieux_ ,” she said. “Andromeda, _grand-mère_.”

Draco could not remember his mother ever saying her estranged sister’s name. It had been his father who had told him what had happened all those years ago, that his mother had had a sister who’d run off and forsaken her family, marrying a Muggleborn. At the time, Draco had scarcely been able to imagine anything more shameful—though Merlin knew he knew better now. Both he and his mother did. Draco reflected on her acceptance of his attraction to other men as opposed to her own parents’ absolute disavowal of their daughter for her choice of husband. He liked to think his father would have accepted him as well, had he lived, but he could have little doubt as the reaction his grandparents would have had.

“I’m glad you showed it to me,” Narcissa said as she smoothed her robes. “Andromeda, a grandmother,” she repeated. “It’s funny, but, you know, I still imagine her as a headstrong twenty-year-old. She must be, heavens, she was fifty-five in December. She looked . . . very like Bellatrix, you know. Remarkably so. One could quite mistake one for the other, at least upon first glance.” The tone of his mother’s voice had picked up minutely, but fell again. “But, no. You wouldn’t know that.

“And the boy,” his mother continued, looking at the letter again, as if she might have forgotten, although Draco was sure nothing could have been further from the truth, “Teddy. Edward. They named him after his grandfather.” Narcissa fell silent after the mention of her sister’s late husband. The man had been killed by Snatchers, but Draco knew no details. From the boy’s enrolment form, Draco knew he’d been born in April. He wondered how long before the birth of his grandchild and namesake the man had died. Had he even known a grandchild was on the way?

Narcissa shivered as if cold, although the day was quite warm. She rallied her spirits, refolding the letter and handing it back to him.

“Have you written back?” she asked.

“I have.”

“What did you say, might I ask?”

Draco returned the letter to its envelope, which he placed in his robe pocket once more. “I replied that I was personally looking forward to welcoming the boy.”

“And are you?”

“Yes, I am,” he said resolutely, although he was unsure how his mother would feel about it. Her tone had given nothing away. “Not that it matters,” he added. “I expect to receive word he will not be attending after all any day.”

Narcissa patted his hand before standing. “I rather think not,” she said. “Mr Potter has never given me the impression he was one to back down, and I can assure you my sister has never backed down in her life. Oh, no. I am quite certain you will be receiving young Mr Lupin as scheduled.”

They resumed their walk through the garden in silence until his mother said suddenly, “I’ve never told anyone, but I’ve written to Andromeda a number of times since her marriage. Not even your father knew.”

Draco was astonished. He’d had no idea his mother had remained in contact with her sister.

“Quite angry, scolding letters, at first. I told her how silent and withdrawn our father had become and how our mother’s eyes were often red because of what she’d done, and I asked her how she could have been so selfish. In time, I wrote and told her I’d accepted Lucius’ hand. I could understand her actions better by then. She loved that man as much as I loved your father.” His mother touched his face briefly. “I wrote when I learned I was expecting you and then that you had been born. When our father became ill, I pled with her to come see him before it was too late. Years later I wrote and told her mother had died.” She lowered her eyes. “The hardest letters to write were those expressing condolence for her losses.” His mother raised her eyes and breathed deeply, wrapping her arm around his once more. “Perhaps the time has come to post something.”

.~*~. 

The day Teddy was scheduled to leave for Quidditch school dawned very differently than the day Harry had watched him fly in his back garden. Firstly, the string of good weather they’d been enjoying had broken, and the dark grey sky above had been hammering them with rain since the early morning hours. Secondly, Teddy no longer wanted to go. Sometime on Saturday afternoon a case of nerves had started to grow inside him at the idea of being away from home for two weeks, and by dinnertime that evening, he’d said he’d changed his mind and didn’t want to go after all. His nervousness had increased all day on Sunday, and by Monday morning, the poor boy had nearly worried himself sick.

“Maybe we shouldn’t make him go,” Harry had suggested to Andromeda when he’d arrived and had seen the state Teddy was in. Teddy had inherited his mother’s Metamorphmagus abilities and normally had his hair coloured some garish shade—most frequently Chudley Cannons orange—but that morning it was its natural shade of light brown, the same as his father’s had been. At that moment, Teddy looked exactly like what Harry reckoned Remus had looked like at that age. 

“Not a bit of it,” Andromeda had said confidently. “By this time tomorrow, his fears will have been forgotten and he will have made friends with half of the other children.” With a fond smile for Harry, she added, “Godfathers aren’t the only ones who worry when a child leaves home for the first time.”

Harry was unconvinced. Teddy looked miserable. If he didn’t want to go, Harry saw no reason to force him.

“Trust me. Teddy will be fine,” Andromeda assured him. Looking at Teddy sitting dejectedly on the sofa, she said, “We were just talking about how afraid his mother was the morning she left for Hogwarts for the first time. He doesn’t believe me.”

“Mum was an Auror,” Teddy said. “She and dad weren’t afraid of anything, ever.”

Andromeda and Harry shared a glance, both thinking the same thought. All of Teddy’s life, they’d told him how brave his parents had been. Maybe they’d overdone it, set them on too high a pedestal.

Andromeda sat down beside the young boy and stroked his hair. “Teddy, your mum was so brave, but that doesn’t mean she was never afraid, far from it.”

As Andromeda talked, Harry remembered when Remus had told him that he and Tonks were going to have a baby. It should have been one of the happiest times in Remus’ life, but he’d been so utterly terrified and guilt-ridden that he’d passed on is lycanthropy to his unborn child, he’d run. 

“Your dad, too, mate,” Harry said. 

It took some time, but eventually a few stories of times when his parents had been afraid—and a whispered promise from Harry, which Andromeda pretended not to hear, that if he really didn’t like it after a couple of days, Harry’d come and bring him home—convinced Teddy to give it a try.

“But you’ll come get me, right?” Teddy asked quietly when his grandmother left the room to fetch the Portkey they’d been sent to take them to France.

“Promise,” Harry answered.

Mollified by the prospect of only two days away from home as opposed to two weeks, Teddy bent down to give his Crup, Finney, some last minute scratches, and Harry slipped away to follow Andromeda into the kitchen. He found her adding a plate full of Teddy’s favourite Snickerdoodle biscuits into his already-packed trunk.

“A little surprise for when he unpacks,” she said, not meeting Harry’s eyes. 

He waited to see if she would add anything before asking, “Decided anything?”

After sharing Malfoy’s letter with Hermione, the next thing Harry had done was to visit Andromeda. Learning the nephew she’d never met—nor expected to ever meet—was the one running the Quidditch school had been a surprise that had unsettled her, but it had been nothing compared to the surprise she’d received three days later when a letter from her sister arrived. 

Narcissa Malfoy had invited Andromeda Tonks to tea. 

“No. I have not,” Andromeda said in a soft tone as she closed the trunk. She sat down and rubbed her forehead. Restless, she looked around the room before saying, “Perhaps that means I should accept. After all, if I was definitely resolved against it, I’d have said so at once.”

Harry didn’t respond. While they were agreed that Draco’s involvement with the school should not keep Teddy from attending, he honestly didn’t know what he would do in her position, and he didn’t want to influence her decision. As he stood in her tidy little kitchen, Harry wondered what she was thinking. Was she remembering happy times she and her sister had shared as children—impossible as it was for Harry to imagine Narcissa Malfoy as a child—or was she haunted by less pleasant memories? He hoped it was the former.

Teddy came into the room. Apart from the broom slung over his shoulder, he looked as if he were on his way to the Healers for a particularly nasty potion. 

An elaborate cuckoo clock Harry knew Andromeda and her husband had bought on their honeymoon in a small magical village in the Black Forest marked the hour, and Andromeda startled as a small yellow bird flew out and fluttered around the room, chirping, before little lederhosen–clad children danced and sang. The portkey lying on the table was set to transport them to Paris in three minutes. She stood, no sign of anything weighing on her mind visible in her face or demeanour any longer. She was the picture of enthusiasm as she looked at Teddy.

“All ready, then?” she asked.

Teddy shrugged. 

Harry ruffled his hair. “You’re going to have fun, mate. You wait and see.”

Teddy shrugged again.

The second hand of the clock ticked, the sound seeming to grow ominously louder as the remaining time passed. When it was nearly time, Harry picked up the Portkey, an old water bottle, and held it out. Andromeda and Teddy touched a finger to the bottle, Teddy as if afraid it might bite him, and seconds later, they vanished.

In the years since Harry’s first time travelling by Portkey he’d got better at it, but only marginally so—to this day his feet hit the ground hard enough to jar every bone in his body, but at least he remained standing. They’d arrived at the International Portkey Station at the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, from where they would travel to Beauxbatons in one of the schools carriages, just as the Beauxbatons students had once arrived at Hogwarts.

“Three past eleven from Tauntaun?” asked a uniformed young wizard in accented English. 

“Taunton,” Harry correct as he handed over the used Portkey.

“And you are Mr Potter?” the man asked, checking them off the clipboard he held. 

For Harry, whose face was instantly recognised wherever he went in Britain, having to confirm his identity was a welcome novelty. “That’s me.” 

“ _Très bien_. If you will follow me, _s'il vous plaît_ , ze carriage to take you on to Beauxbatons will be departing shortly.” He extended an arm towards a door at the back of the room. “We are still expecting two more pupils for ze school. Zere are refreshments on board ze carriage. I ‘ope you will enjoy your stay in France.”

Teddy followed Harry and Andromeda through the door with his eyes downcast, raising them only when his grandmother asked, “Well, Teddy, what do you think?”

When he looked up, his eyes widened, their natural dark brown colour twinkling like Harry remembered his mother’s doing. “Whoa,” he said, awed.

Harry agreed. Outside the Portkey Station door was one of the most bizarre sights he had ever seen. The pale blue carriage that awaited them was exactly like the one Harry remembered the Beauxbatons students arriving at Hogwarts in. Its four wheels were twice the height of the average man and the carriage itself was the size of his house, but the most impressive sight was the dozen golden, winged, elephant-sized horses that would pull it through the air. In the background dozens of jet airliners arriving and departing, being taxied here or there, or arranged around tentacle-like corridors extending from de Gaulle’s Terminal Two, created a bizarre juxtaposition of magical and Muggle travel. 

“Cool,” Teddy said just a little breathlessly.

Andromeda and Harry caught each other’s eyes over Teddy’s head.

.~*~. 

Draco was not happy. This was the last thing he needed. One more trivial demand from one more over-inflated former Quidditch player . . . He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. In front of him, his star student bit her lip, the corners of her mouth twitching uncontrollably as she tried not to laugh.

“ _Répète-moi ça, s’il-te-plait_ ,” he said.

Émilie Renaud would begin her final year at Beauxbatons in September and was one of several students who’d agreed to work at the Quidditch school in the hopes of meeting some of the biggest names in the sport in the past twenty years. A Seeker like he himself had been, she had dreams of playing professional Quidditch herself one day, and Draco felt she had a real shot. She had both the natural talent and work ethic that could make it happen; she only lacked the confidence in her own ability. He only hoped actually meeting the players she strove to fly like didn’t turn her off the sport for good before she found that confidence. 

Émilie repeated the message she’d been given for him—that Hildegarde Lafarge, the famous Chaser from the 1994 French National Team, was demanding her room be changed because it did not offer her as nice a view as the room assigned to Mathilde Mallard boasted.

Draco grit his teeth. Personally, he was convinced the real reason the two women made such effective Chasers, throwing the Quaffle to each other with such strength and precision, wasn’t their drive to score goals, it was because they hoped to knock the other off her broom. 

He told Émilie he would take care of it, but in truth, Draco had a far more pressing matter to contend with than the renowned rivalry between the former teammates. Viktor Krum—who, being the youngest Seeker to fly in the Quidditch World Cup in a hundred years, was arguably the biggest draw of any of the former players they had got to coach at the school—had not arrived as scheduled. The Portkey the man had been sent had arrived at the de Gaulle Portkey Station with no passenger, and the two international Floo calls Draco had made had gone unanswered. Despite his international renown, Krum had been the easiest player to work with. Draco’d had premonitions of one or two of the other players pulling something like this, but he would had not have expected it of Krum, which made the man’s behaviour all the more infuriating. 

On top of that, the carriage from Great Britain was scheduled to arrive any minute, carrying Potter and Draco’s aunt and cousin, along with the few students whose families had not pulled them after seeing just who it was running the school.

.~*~. 

“Look—Harry Potter.”

“Harry Potter.”

“That’s _Harry Potter_.”

“Harry Potter!”

The whispers that greeted Harry when he stepped into the carriage erased any lingering sense of freedom having to confirm his identity to the Portkey Station attendant had given him, and with a repressed sigh he slipped into the familiar routine of ignoring his name being spoken by strangers in hushed, awestruck tones, as if he were some rare mythical creature and not just a man like any other. 

As large as the carriage was, the inside was bigger still. In addition to tables of the refreshments the attendant had mentioned, Harry reckoned there was seating for at least fifty or sixty passengers arranged in clusters of comfortable looking chairs around low tables, but most of them were empty. Harry counted four kids Teddy’s age, and the attendant had said they were expecting two more. Only seven students from Great Britain? Could that be right? From all the advertising that had been run in the _Daily Prophet_ and the articles on which former Quidditch stars had signed on, Harry had got the impression there would be more than twice that many.

Unless—

“See, Mary? What did I tell you?” whispered a man with a Scottish accent, his voice carrying far more than he likely realised. “Why, Harry Potter himself is still willing to allow his godson to attend the school.”

“I still don’t like it, Malcolm,” the woman responded, leaning over the child seated between them. “And you know what the—”

The woman never finished her sentence, shushed by her husband who seemed to suddenly realise they were not speaking quite as softly as they’d thought, but Harry knew what the unspoken rest of the sentence was.

“ _And you know what the boy’s father was._ ”

“Teddy, let’s get something to eat, yeah?” he said, and the three of them made their way to the food tables, turning their backs on the murmuring crowd. There was an extensive array of foods spread out: breads and cheese, a variety of hors d'oeuvres, quiches, tartlets—both savoury and sweet, finger sandwiches, fruits, petit fours. . . Teddy would certainly be well fed while at Beauxbatons.

Their first glimpse of Beauxbatons Palace through the carriage window came about two hours after departing Paris and was nothing short of breath-taking. The palace was truly stunning: several storeys of ornately decorated white limestone, rows upon rows of long rectangular, mullioned windows, and huge round towers topped by steep slate roofs adorned with tall wrought iron spires and elaborate cresting. 

Harry sneaked a peek at Teddy, who was staring out the window in wide-eyed wonder, his hair taking on a noticeably orange tint.

“Whoa!” exclaimed a young boy, drawing the attention of several others nearby. “Your hair just changed colour!” 

It was as much the boy’s Scottish accent that drew Harry’s attention as his words. It was this boy’s parents whose not-so-whispered conversation Harry had overheard when they’d boarded. 

Teddy smiled and said, “That’s nothing.” A second later, his hair was the same shade of powder blue as the carriage they rode in.

“Sick!” said the boy.

.~*~. 

The carriage appeared over the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees right on time, and as Draco watched it circle once, showing off the school and surrounding gardens to its passengers, he wondered what in the name of Nicolas Flamel he was supposed to say when he met his aunt and cousin. The only thing to do, he decided, was to adopt an air of professional detachment, to treat them as if they were any other student and his family. After all, he had no reason to think his aunt had any interest in acknowledging their connection—she would surely have responded to his mother’s invitation if she had. While he was disappointed for his mother, Draco couldn’t honestly say he was surprised. His aunt had lost both her husband and daughter during the war—her daughter to the wand of another sister—and truth to tell, the guilt he still felt for his part in the war left him feeling ill at the thought of meeting her. How could forgiveness be hoped after such a loss? Maybe, had they survived the war, there would have been a chance, but as it was . . .

Potter was another matter. Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Lupin might be his nearest blood relations after his mother, but they were perfect strangers to him. The same could not be said for Potter and himself. 

And, as if Potter and his aunt and cousin weren’t enough, there were also the other passengers on board to be dealt with. He felt a terrible sense of foreboding that he was about to become the centre of a very ugly scene caused by people who had somehow missed his name being included in the information packets he’d sent out.

.~*~. 

As well aware as Harry was of the effectiveness of well-cast cushioning charms, he still remembered the violence with which the Beauxbatons carriage had slammed down onto the ground at Hogwarts, and he couldn’t help bracing for the impact as if they were all about to be thrown about the carriage, half imagining something similar to landing a flying car on a Whomping Willow. When they did land, though, it felt so gentle and smooth he’d scarcely have known they’d touched down were it not for the teenaged boy in pale blue robes who had travelled with them standing and proudly welcoming them to Beauxbatons.

“Okay,” Harry admitted as he and Andromeda followed Teddy and the boy with the Scottish accent—who, they’d learnt in the past few minutes, was called Douglas, liked to play Chaser best (because if your Chasers are good enough, it doesn’t matter how good your Seeker is!), had two sisters and a brother and also had a pet Crup—down the stairs. “You were right.”

Douglas, Harry liked just fine, but the boy’s parents continued to gape at him like he was a shiny object and they were a pair of Nifflers. He and Andromeda had introduced themselves after the boys had begun talking. The boy’s mother had almost swooned.

“Of course I was,” Andromeda responded, clearly saying “I told you so” without actually saying the words.

The horses had pulled the carriage around to the side of the palace before the door had been opened and the stairs lowered, and when the passengers disembarked, they found themselves on a grand terrace facing a courtyard enclosed on three sides by the palace and on the fourth by a wall of five large arches, each standing three storeys tall. The pillars dividing the arches were heavily decorated and flanked on both ends by perfectly groomed potted topiaries that were better than twice as tall as Harry. In the centre arch stood a statue of a man who waved to people and greeted them as they passed by, and in the arches on either end hung pale blue banners trimmed in gold and bearing the Beauxbatons crest.

Walking through one of the open arches, came Draco Malfoy.

“Oh, my,” breathed Andromeda. “So that’s him,” she said in a very controlled tone of voice that betrayed nothing of what she thought or felt. 

“That’s him,” Harry confirmed in a whisper.

“That’s who, Gran?” Teddy asked.

.~*~. 

_Allez, tu peux le faire,_ Draco told himself as he walked towards the carriage.

Almost right away, he saw them. How could he not with the way the rest of the small group of people standing near the carriage seemed to draw back as one as he neared? Draco was glad his mother had warned him how closely her sisters had resembled each other; had she not, he might have drawn back himself. The resemblance was uncanny. Even knowing it was not Bellatrix standing there, his mouth went dry from the strength of the likeness. 

As for the boy, his cousin, it was hard to take in anything other than a head full of blue hair—a perfect shade of Beauxbaton’s blue. A bit of accidental magic, Draco reckoned. 

Then there was Potter. Draco had always maintained an image of Potter in his head as he’d been when they were younger. In spite of the fact that they were both nearly thirty, Draco still pictured Potter as scrawny and speccy and wearing obviously hand-me-down clothes that looked like their first owner had had some giant blood in him. It was safe to say the man standing beside the Bellatrix Lestrange look-alike and the blue-haired boy put that image to rest. Well-made robes—bespoke, if Draco was not mistaken—not tall, but nice broad shoulders, not handsome per se, but unquestionably attractive. 

“Welcome to Beauxbatons,” Draco said loudly, consciously reminding himself to speak in English despite the translation charms and ignoring the blatant staring and whispering of the rest of the pitifully small crowd. They’d had their chance to cancel like all the rest had. If they’d not wanted to contend with him, they ought to have done so. “I am Draco Malfoy, Flying Instructor and Quidditch Referee, and for the next fortnight, Director of the Beauxbatons Summer Quidditch School.”

The whispering had quieted immediately as he’d spoken, and Draco now waited for the objections to begin, but the first voice raised was not raised in protest. 

“Draco,” Potter said, his voice loud and clear as he stepped forward and extended his hand. “It’s good to see you again.” 

A step behind Potter came his aunt and cousin. Andromeda Tonks looked at him with appraising eyes. Like most of the other adults, her hand lay on her grandson’s shoulder, but in a softer way than the rest, who all looked as if they expected him to attempt to snatch their children away and use them as potions ingredients. 

“Potter,” Draco said in greeting. 

It felt odd, shaking Potter’s hand, but odder still was when Draco’s aunt reached for his hand with both of hers the moment Potter released it.

“Draco,” she said, “I am pleased to meet you. This is Teddy.” 

Draco now saw why his mother had qualified her statement that her sisters could only be mistaken one for the other upon first glance. Not for one minute in her entire life had Bellatrix’s face held the softness this woman’s did. The resemblance was in the bones, but the women’s divergent personalities countered it the moment one really looked.

“Hi,” Teddy said, sounding as uncertain as Draco felt.

“Teddy, Draco is your cousin. His mother is my sister.”

“Whoa!” Teddy exclaimed, looking at his grandmother in surprise. “Gran, you’ve got a sister?”

“Yes, I have. I am joining her for tea this afternoon after we say good-bye. If,” she looked at Draco, “the invitation is still open?”

“I—I’m sure it is,” Draco responded.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Teddy asked, looking between his grandmother and Potter.

Andromeda sighed. “It’s a long story, Teddy.”

At that age, Draco would never have accepted such a response as being the end of the matter, even for the time being, but the boy’s immediate leaving off of the subject testified to how many “long stories” he’d born witness to in his ten years. Draco felt a rush of protectiveness for him. 

The rest of the new arrivals had remained quiet when Potter had first come up to him, but now the low murmur of whispered voices could be heard again. Potter’s and his aunt’s behaviour surprised Draco, but he didn’t have time to think on it. One by one, the other families began to come up to him, as if following Potter’s lead, albeit reluctantly.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Potter whispered to him.

Draco looked at him, confused. What was one supposed to look like after seeing a ghost? He’d seen hundreds. They both had.

Potter’s lips pressed firmly together, and his shoulders shook. 

Draco ignored him.

“If you’ll all follow me, some of our staff are waiting to sign your children in,” Draco said to the crowd, beginning the same welcome speech he’d given several times that day already. He led the group into the school’s courtyard, and as they passed through one of the arches, Draco paused and waved his hand towards a marble statue in introduction. “May I introduce Mr Nicolas Flamel, Beauxbatons’ most accomplished alumnus.”

“ _Bienvenue à Beauxbâtons_!” the statue said as he bowed to the crowd.

“Mr Flamel was the greatest alchemist in history. Born in the year 1327, he lived to be six hundred and sixty five years old.” Draco waited while the children “Ooohed!” and the statue downplayed the complement to his skill—“Really, much too kind”— before finishing, “Before the International Confederation of Wizards established the Statute of Secrecy in 1692, his accomplishments were known throughout the Muggle world as well as our own, and to this day there are streets in Muggle Paris named for both him and his wife, Perenelle. He has also been mentioned in some of the Muggle world’s best-known works of fiction, most notably Viktor Hugo’s ‘ _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ ’.”

“ _À bientôt,_ ,” called the statue as Draco led the group into the courtyard, where a throng of Beauxbatons students was waiting to take them off his hands.

“After their first two years, during which all students reside in the same house, Beauxbatons students are sorted into one of four houses, dependent on the aptitude they’ve shown for different disciplines of magical study,” Draco explained. “They are Toubeau, Malecrit, Trèfle and Bonaccord. Whilst your children are with us, boys will be housed in Bonaccord House and girls in Toubeau House. 

“The grounds and gardens surrounding the palace are open to the students in their entirety. However, for practical purposes, the only areas of the palace which will be open to Quidditch school students, in addition to Bonaccord and Toubeau Houses, are the dining hall and the Flamel Library. As explained in the literature you were all sent, there are students attending the school from over twenty countries, and translation charms have been woven over all areas open to students. 

__“Students will share dorms according to nationality, and for the first week will remain in those groups for practice sessions for all positions. During the first half of the second week, new groups will be formed according to preferred position, and for the last two days of the programme, teams will be assigned and matches will be played.”_ _

__As the other groups he’d welcomed so far had, the children all grew excited at the prospect of playing in a real Quidditch match, and eager glances passed between them._ _

Several teenagers had gathered around him with their enchanted parchments, ready to sign the students in, and Draco planned to hand them over, say his _au revoir_ s and make his escape as quickly and unobtrusively as possible—he still had a renegade Seeker to locate and drag bodily to France, if necessary. 

__His aunt and cousin were claimed by the Keeper for Trèfle House to be signed in, but Potter lingered at his side. “I don’t reckon there’s another group of kids from Britain arriving on another carriage?” Potter asked in a hushed voice that held more tact than Draco would have thought him capable of._ _

__“No. Zere is not.”_ _

__Potter looked at him, his eyebrows raised._ _

__Striving to remember his position and everything he owed to Madame Maxime, Draco fought to keep his tone professional, but that Potter would have the nerve to act surprised at the comparatively low turnout of British students set his teeth on edge, and he knew some of his irritation made its way to his voice. “I fully expected you to cancel as well,” he said._ _

__Potter had the decency to act abashed, and he looked at the ground. “I did consider it—briefly.”_ _

“ _Monsieur_ Malfoy!” called a teenage boy called Mathieu Allemande, one of the Bonaccord Beaters, as he ran up to them. Reaching them, the young man said, “ _C’est M. Krum._ ” 

“ _Enfin. Il est arrivé_?” Draco responded. 

“ _Non._ ” 

“ _Non_?” questioned Draco rather more sternly than he’d intended and slipping naturally back into French as he led the boy away from the crowd, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Purposely arriving late to make a big entrance was one thing, but this was taking the Snitch. Krum was rapidly approaching the time when one stops feeling irritation at the lateness of the arrival and begins fearing the arrival will not take place at all. Almost every person he’d spoken to that day had asked about Krum, and the last thing Draco wanted was for a rumour the man was not going to be present as advertised to break out. 

_“ Non, Monsieur. J'étais dans votre bureau pour récupérer les parchemins pour les prochaines arrivées quand j'ai entendu quelqu'un vous appeler par Cheminette. C’était Madame Krum,_ ” Mathieu explained. 

__Draco sincerely hoped Mathieu was about to tell him a funny story about Krum standing in his kitchen at the appointed time holding a used tea bag or some such rubbish and wondering why he wasn’t being Portkeyed to Paris whilst the Portkey Draco had sent him, half an old shoelace, arrived at de Gaulle without him._ _

“ _Elle dit qu'elle en est très désolée mais que son mari ne pourra pas être là avant dimanche._ ” 

Draco grit his teeth together. " _Dimanche._ " 

Mathieu winced. “ _Oui, Monsieur. Elle a dit que M. Krum était très malade, et que son guérisseur lui a interdit de sortir avant dimanche._ ” Mathieu mentioned the name of the disease Krum’s wife had said her husband had been diagnosed with, but Draco had never heard of it. Apparently, it was some extremely contagious Muggle thing, and as it had been misdiagnosed for several days, it had progressed beyond the point any potion might have helped. 

__Visions of hordes of irate families filled Draco’s mind, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Wherever Madame Canfield was spending her summer holiday, he hoped she was enjoying herself, because the moment he saw her he was going to hex her into a turnip and feed her to a goat._ _

__“Is something wrong?” Potter asked quietly from behind him, making Draco grit his teeth harder. If he’d wanted to include the man in the conversation, he’d not have led Mathieu away. “Is Viktor alright? He did mention he’d been feeling poorly when I talked to him Saturday—caught a cold, he said, but the potion his Healer gave him hadn’t fixed him up at all.”_ _

__“Krum hasn’t got a cold. He’s got something called measles,” Draco responded tersely. He’d been about to curse the ineptitude of Bulgarian Healers, but the expression on Potter’s face stopped him._ _

__“Keep your voice down,” Potter hissed. He looked around them anxiously. Taking both Draco and Mathieu by the arm, he urged them farther from the rest of the people in the courtyard. He looked at Draco very seriously. “Have you been in contact with him in the past several days? In person, I mean,” he asked, keeping his own voice barely above a whisper._ _

__“No,” Draco answered._ _

__Potter exhaled and closed his eyes. “Thank God,” he said. “Nor’ve I. I only spoke to him through the Floo. Is there anyone here who might’ve been in direct contact with him in the past week or so?”_ _

__The seriousness with which Potter took the risk of exposure to whatever this Muggle disease was sunk in with Draco, and the visions of irate families were replaced with ones of the children he was responsible for falling ill. “No. Alexei Levski and Clara Ivanova are here, but they both said they haven’t seen him in ages and were looking forward to seeing him again. The students from Bulgaria arrived an hour ago. They all said how excited they were to meet him, as did practically every single other person. But look here, Potter, what is this measles? Is it dangerous? I’ve got a couple of hundred kids and their families here already, and as many more en route.”_ _

__“It’s is an extremely contagious Muggle disease. In rare occasions, it can be very serious. It used to be really widespread, but they can prevent it now, so it’s become really rare. Malfoy, if Krum had come here not knowing he had measles, it would have been a nightmare. Merlin knows how many people could have been infected, every single person here would have been at risk, unless they were Muggle-born and had been given the Muggle vaccine as children.”_ _

__Draco swallowed, the scope of the problem they might have faced apparent to him now._ _

__Inhaling, he turned his attention back to the problem at hand: the biggest name they had got to coach at the school would not be joining them for several days—if at all. He could not assume Krum would be fit to teach Seeking to hundreds of children after an illness. There would be an uproar when he broke the news, Draco was sure, but at the moment there was nothing he could do about that. On a more practical note, he was down a Seeker._ _

_À moins que_ . . . 

__Years ago, when the news broke that the Cannons’ new star Seeker Evan Griffin was really Harry Potter in disguise, the story had been big enough that it jumped the Channel and made it into the French newspapers. Draco looked at Potter with great reluctance, but the fact was that he needed to find a Seeker fast, and short though his career had been, Potter had played Seeker for the Cannons. As much as Draco hated to do it, desperate times called for desperate measures. Where else was he supposed to find a new Seeker on less than a day’s notice? He had just enough retired players to keep the groups of kids at a manageable size, and he wanted to keep it that way._ _

__“Got any plans for the next week or two, Potter?” he asked. “Want a job?”_ _

__“I’ve already got a job,” Potter answered, what Draco was actually asking him going right over his head._ _

__“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a holiday in France? Well, a working holiday, really”_ _

__Potters eyes widened comically as he caught on._ _

“I need a Seeker. You were a Seeker.” _Et tu es sur place_ , Draco added to himself. 

__“But only for two years,” Potter protested._ _

__“Two brilliant years,” Draco admitted honestly. If Potter had been only mediocre, his career would have likely lasted longer. It was because he’d been so damned good—on a team renowned for coming in dead last—that so much interest had built up around him. The Cannons had gone from having last place safely to themselves to fighting their way up the standings in the two years Potter had flown for them. There’d been no way he was going to escape notice._ _

__“I was alright,” Potter admitted as he looked at the ground and shrugged._ _

__“You were better than alright, and you know it. You know what your record was. That was your downfall, you know. You were too good to stay unnoticed._ _

__“If there is any possible way you could clear the next two weeks of your schedule, I’ve got a few hundred kids who want to learn to catch a Snitch,” Draco offered as last ditch effort, hoping a reminder of the kids would sway the man where helping him certainly wouldn’t. “Even just one week. Krum should be alright for the second week, according to his wife.” Draco wasn’t at all sure he would be, but he hoped Potter might be more willing to rearrange his schedule for one week than for two. The second week of the school, Draco could deal with later if he had to._ _

__“Harry! You should see my dorm!” Teddy shouted as he ran up to them. “You can see the pitch from the common room windows, and me and Douglas got beds right next to each other!”_ _

__“Really? Wow, that’s great.” Potter responded, his whole face changing when he looked at his godson._ _

__Draco wanted to sigh with relief. The look on Potter’s face said it all. He was staying, Draco was sure of it._ _

__“What would you say if I were to stick around for a few days and help coach?” Potter asked the boy._ _

__Draco smiled. If Potter ever played poker, he’d lose his shirt._ _

____

.~*~. 

Harry made his way to the dining hall after his first morning of classes in very high spirits. He’d always loved being up on a broom, and he’d enjoyed working with the kids. He’d been worried—he was no substitute for Viktor Krum, no matter what Malfoy said—but it had gone well, he thought. He’d had three groups of kids that morning—French, Italian, and his last group had been a combined one made up of kids from countries with smaller populations. He hadn’t really faced much disappointment from the kids that they were having him as a coach instead of the legendary Viktor Krum, but Harry knew Malfoy had got an earful from loads of parents. Quite frankly, Harry was rather impressed with how well he’d had handled them.

Entering the dining hall, Harry searched out Teddy in the crowd and, his bright orange hair being easy to spot, quickly found him sitting with his group. Harry wouldn’t have the British kids till Thursday—according to the schedule Malfoy had worked out, each group of kids got one training session with each of the retired players. Teddy and Douglas sat side by side, and the two had their heads bent together. As glad as Harry was to see it, he did miss the days when he’d had Teddy to himself. He wanted to go over and ask Teddy how his morning practices had gone, but he wasn’t so old that he didn’t know such a thing just wasn’t done. Just as Harry was going to look away, Teddy looked up and saw him. He smiled and waved. Harry waved back and returned the smile; he’d have to content himself with that for now.

At the front of the room stood the staff table, and Harry spotted Malfoy arriving at the far side from where Harry was walking. Malfoy’s platinum hair stood out almost as much as Teddy’s orange. The staff table was nearly full, and Malfoy made for the nearest available seat, his attention seemingly more devoted to a parchment he held in his hand until he looked up and his steps faltered, as if he’d suddenly remembered something he’d been supposed to do and briefly deliberated whether to stay or leave. It appeared he decided to stay, as he proceeded to the seat to which he’d been headed, although Harry noted that his steps were slower than they’d been before. It was strange, Harry thought, seeing him again after so many years. In many ways, Malfoy looked very much like he had when they were younger: he was tall and slim, his features were still rather pointy, his colouring still very pale. But there was something indefinably different. Harry wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. All he did know was that the young woman who had been assigned to him to act as his assistant during his practice sessions—the Seeker for Toubeau House—could not speak highly enough of Malfoy. And she—so she’d told him—was Muggle-born.

As Harry reached the raised dais on which the staff table stood, he saw as Malfoy turned his head marginally towards the witch next to him in response to something she’d said as she stood to leave. The witch was striking—even from a distance, Harry could see that. She had a sensual Mediterranean beauty, deep olive skin and thick black hair that fell over her shoulders in long, smooth waves. Harry could see the way she looked at Malfoy and the way her hand slid over his shoulders as she walked behind him. Harry also saw that Malfoy did not look pleased, whereas once, he’d have eaten up such a public display of interest from a beautiful witch. 

Reaching the table, Harry took the seat the woman had just vacated. He’d talked to Andromeda the night before, and she’d told him how tea with her sister had gone—in a word, tensely. Given all that had transpired between them and around them, tensely was rather successfully in Harry’s opinion. He wondered if Malfoy’s mother had told him anything of their afternoon.

“Potter,” Malfoy said as he returned a serving fork to a large plate of cucumber and tomato salad. “I’d hoped to see you. I’ve been wanting to speak to you.”

A new place setting appeared on the table in front of Harry almost immediately, and he picked up the napkin off his plate. “I wanted to talk to you as well,” he said, trying to gauge Malfoy’s tone and failing. He didn’t sound displeased, at least. If Malfoy also wanted to ask Harry about his mother and aunt’s first meeting in so long, at least it didn’t appear he’d been opposed to the meeting or had got a bad report from his mother. “You first.”

“I wanted to thank you for filling in for Krum on such short notice—or rather no notice at all.”

Malfoy’s manner was overly business-like, very formal, and it strangely made Harry want to grin. He repressed the urge and shrugged. “I’ve got no one to answer to at home, and there was nothing pressing that needed my attention at work. The owner’s a pretty good bloke, and he’s got a soft spot for kids,” Harry said, rather enjoying the inside joke. 

“Still, it was good of you. Had you been unable, or refused outright, I doubt I’d have been able to find a replacement, and it’s important to keep class sizes from being too large or the students won’t get the attention they need.” Cutting a slice of cucumber in half, he asked, “You found your room satisfactory, I trust?”

“Quite satisfactory,” Harry replied. The room he’d been assigned looked like it belonged at Buckingham Palace: the ceiling was easily ten feet, the walls were covered with deep burgundy silk, the perimeter of the floor was white marble veined with grey while the centre was covered with a rug so thick Harry could wriggle his bare toes into it. “Considering it was, as you said, such short notice,” he joked.

Draco was not in a joking mode, it seemed. For one brief moment irritation clouded his eyes and his hands tightened around his cutlery in a death grip, before his business-like demeanour returned, and, his voice tight with forced politeness, he began to say, “If it is not to your liking—”

Harry held his hands up and smiled. “Joking, Malfoy. I was joking. The room’s bloody gorgeous.”

Slowly, Draco relaxed. “You’re comfortable, then?” he asked with a definite note of relief in his voice as he speared a tomato slice on his fork and slid it around his plate, coating it in the vinaigrette dressing.

After he’d agreed to stay on, Harry had called Winky and asked her to pack a trunk for him. Kreacher had died not long after the war, and at Professor McGonagall’s urging—and to Hermione’s utter mortification—Harry had agreed to have the freed house-elf bound to him. Anyone who’d cared to look could’ve seen the poor creature was miserably unhappy being free, and now, even Hermione had to agree the elf was much more content. Once Winky’d arrived with his trunk, she’d quickly gone about the business of getting him settled in. “Perfectly,” Harry said as he helped himself to the cucumber and tomato salad. “I can’t imagine anyone wouldn’t be.”

Draco looked at him as if surprised by his words before turning his head towards were Teddy sat.

Now in such close proximity, Harry had the chance to take a good look at the other man without openly staring. He wasn’t what Harry would call handsome—not the type of man Harry was attracted to, certainly—but there was something attractive about Draco, he admitted. 

“Not even the Weasleys have hair that colour,” Malfoy said, still looking towards Teddy.

Harry chuckled. “He’s a Cannons fan, alright. His hair is orange more often than not. Yesterday’s blue was a bit of showing off in front of his new friend.”

“You let him cast colour changing charms on himself at his age?” Malfoy asked sharply. 

“He doesn’t need them. Teddy’s a Metamorphmagus.”

Malfoy had reached for a platter of marinated veal with mushrooms, but his hand froze in mid motion and he looked at Harry. “He’s a what?” he asked breathlessly.

“A Metamorphmagus.”

“Do you have any idea how rare that is?” 

“His mother was one, too.” Harry laughed. “He’ll have a ball at Hogwarts. Tonks always said she did.”

Slowly, Malfoy placed a slice of veal on his plate. “What was she like?” he asked softly, his eyes on the table.

Harry helped himself to veal as well, spooning on a generous amount of mushrooms over the meat. How did one describe Tonks? “Her first name was Nymphadora, but she hated it and went by Tonks instead. Only her parents called her by her first name, and even they shortened it to Dora. ‘Don’t call me Nymphadora!’ she would say in this really menacing voice to anyone who did, and her hair would change to bright, blood red. Even Remus called her Tonks.” Harry breathed deeply. Remembering was bittersweet. “She was the clumsiest person I ever met. I swear, she could break one thing and trip over something else without moving an inch. At Grimmauld Place, she always used to trip over this awful old umbrella stand—a troll’s foot, it was, if you can believe that—and wake up this horrible portrait of old Walburga Black, who then went on a tirade of how we were sullying the house of her fathers and blah, blah, blah,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand before he fell silent for a moment and pushed mushrooms around his plate. “She was enthusiastic, and funny. At mealtimes, all these Order members would be around the table and we all knew what was at stake and the danger we were facing, and she’d change her nose to a bird beak and make everyone laugh. She was . . . brave and loyal and inquisitive . . . and selfless and . . . she loved Remus so much . . .” Harry ran his hand over his mouth. “She’d have been a great mum,” he said quietly. “And Remus would’ve made a great dad,” he added almost inaudibly, so softly did he speak.

Malfoy hadn’t spoken a word as Harry talked, and afterwards they both fell silent whilst the crowded hall around them buzzed with voices. 

After several minutes, Malfoy touched his napkin to the corner of his mouth and cleared his throat. “We had no idea a child had been born until your letter arrived.” He hesitated before continuing in a rush, “I—I was very glad yesterday when, when my, my aunt said she was accepting my mother’s invitation to tea. I spoke to my mother last night, and she said it went well—uncomfortable, understandably—but well.”

Harry chewed his veal and swallowed. He took a drink of water. The way Draco stammered when referring to Andromeda as his aunt—as if unsure his use of the term would be welcomed—had not escaped his notice. “I talked to Andromeda last night, too. She said the same. Tense was the word she used.” 

A Beauxbatons student came up to Malfoy and excused himself before whispering something Harry did not hear but that made Malfoy close his eyes and exhale tiredly. The student looked sympathetic. Malfoy rubbed his forehead before responding, “I will handle it.” Until that moment, Harry had only heard Draco speak in English, but he’d answered the student in French, which Harry heard in English thanks to the translation charms. The voice Harry heard speak was not Draco’s, and the words did not match the motion of his mouth. Harry found himself wondering what Draco’s voice sounded like speaking in French.

Draco peaked at him quickly before spreading some brie on a slice of baguette. “How do you find Émilie?” he asked.

His mind wandering somewhere it really ought not wander, Harry was surprised by the question, and he took a moment before answering. “She seems very nice. She’s good with the kids.”

“What did you think of her flying?”

“I didn’t particularly notice. Why do you ask?”

“She has hopes of flying professionally. She could do it too—she’s one of the best natural flyers I’ve seen, and she’s the first one on the pitch to practice and the last one off. The only thing she lacks is confidence. I tell her she’s got talent, but I’m her flying instructor.”

“And you’re thinking that if she hears it from someone else, it might carry more weight,” Harry said.

“Particularly if that person played professionally himself. If you could possible spare some time to go up with her—”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry agreed readily. Why not? He had nothing better to do with his afternoon. Teddy, he knew, was going with his group on a short excursion to an all-Wizarding village chaperoned by more Beauxbatons students. If Malfoy thought this girl was that good, Harry believed him, and who knew, if she was good enough, he could put her on the radar with the right people within the Cannons organization. “I’ll go up with her. We’ll take a practice Snitch, and I’ll put her through a few drills. This afternoon?”

.~*~. 

“ _Je ne sais pas, Monsieur_ ,” Émilie fretted as she walked with Draco to the pitch where Potter would meet them.

“ _Tu n’es pas obligée, si tu n’en as pas envie_ ," Draco assured her. “ _Mais si je ne pensais pas que tu avais le niveau, je n’en aurais jamais parlé à Monsieur Potter._ ”

When they arrived at the pitch, Potter was already there, and he came up to them. He greeted them both, and smiled warmly at Émilie. 

Émilie cast an anxious glance at Draco. He stood directly in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Regret is a terrible thing, Émilie,” he told her. “No one gets through life without their fair share, but we can try to limit the number we carry.” He gave her a pat on the arm. “So get on your broom.” He held her eyes with his until she inhaled and nodded her head. Draco smiled at her and watched her move to stand next to Potter. Potter, Draco noticed, was looking at him with an odd expression on his face, but he quickly turned his attention to Émilie. 

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“ _Oui,_ ” she responded looking determined and reminding Draco strongly of her first Quidditch match five years ago. 

They mounted their brooms.

“I thought we would go through a few basic drills the Cannons’ scouts use when trying out new hopefuls.” Potter explained. Holding up a Snitch, he explained, “It’s bewitched to fly an erratic, unpredictable pattern like during a real match, but at the same time it’s spelled to stay within a quarter of the pitch. This is not a test to spot the Snitch from across the pitch. I know you can do that, else we’d not be here. The real test is your agility, reflexes and ability to focus on the Snitch despite distractions, to not lose it once you’ve spotted it.” He pointed up at two Bludgers hovering about fifty feet off the ground at either side of the half-pitch line. “Just like during a match, they’ll fly at you from random directions—but never from behind, or directly above or below. They’ll only come at you from within your field of view, but they might not enter it until almost the last moment. You’ve got no Beater to protect you, so you need to be on your guard at all times and fly defensively without losing sight of the Snitch. They’ll come at you progressively faster and more frequently. Any questions?”

“ _Non._ ” 

“Then let’s start.”

And they kicked off.

Potter took Émilie up to the centre of the pitch, and they hovered facing each other for some time before Potter flew several feet lower and a glint of gold caught Draco’s eye as the Snitch shot from his hand.

As Émilie flew off in pursuit, Draco stood on the edge of the pitch, holding his hand up to screen his eyes from the sun. Potter remained in the centre of the pitch, hovering in place and watching.

Potter waved his wand, and the first of the two Bludgers circled around and flew at Émilie from almost dead ahead. It didn’t appear to fly any faster than one hit by a strong Beater during a typical school-level match, and she evaded it easily. When the second came at her ten or twelve seconds later, it was noticeably faster and from an angle to her left. Whether Émilie saw it or not, Draco couldn’t be sure. She stayed on her course, and he could see her gaze was set directly in front of her. When the Bludger was no more than five or six feet from her, she dipped down smoothly and the Bludger passed directly over her. Draco mumbled his approval under his breath.

As Potter had said they would, the Bludgers came ever more frequently and with greater speed. With Émilie’s every dive and swerve, Draco felt himself leaning into the move along with her. It looked to him like she was doing well, and he hoped Potter thought so too. When both Bludgers came at her at the same time from different directions, Draco held his breath, but Émilie performed a skilful evasive manoeuvre at the last second and the Bludgers collided in exactly the spot she would have been, the sharp, jarring “ _Clang!_ ” of iron hitting iron audible where he stood. Draco pumped his fist in the air, his loud shout of approval combining with the cheers and handclapping of several others. Turning in surprise, he saw that a number of Émilie’s friends had turned up some time after Émilie and his arrival and that with them were several Quidditch school students and even a few retired professional players, including both Mathilde Mallard and Hildegarde Lafarge, as well as Paul Reynaud, Keeper from the 1986 French National Team. One and all had their faces turned skyward, and several hands pointed towards Émilie as voices whispered.

Redirecting his attention upwards, Draco was just in time to see Émilie surge forward, her torso pressed low on the broom and her arm outstretched. Seconds later, she threw her arm in the air with the Snitch clenched in her fist. 

Draco nodded his head and grinned proudly whilst applause and shouts of “ _Ouais_!” “ _La classe_!” “ _Trop bien_!” “ _T'es la meilleure_!” and “ _Bravo_!” came from the crowd.

Potter was not done with his drills, and he flew to Émilie. They hovered together for a minute before flying off to one end of the pitch where they stayed for a moment until, just like before, Potter flew a few feet below and waved his arm. A yellow ring appeared in the air a few feet in front of Émilie, and she flew straight through it. A blue circle then appeared above her, and she flew over it. A continuous series of different coloured rings and circles appeared randomly in the air one after the other as Émilie flew, creating an obstacle course which required immediate and varied reactions and gave no advanced warning of which obstacle was coming next or where. The farther around the pitch she flew, the less reaction time there was between obstacles and the smaller the rings she was to fly through became. Most vanished after she passed it, but as she made her way through the course, a few began to remain after she’d passed, which Draco took to mean she hadn’t cleared it cleanly. He flinched with every obstacle that remained. Émilie flew one full lap around the pitch, and finished back where she began and where Potter was waiting for her. 

The final drill Potter had for her was pure speed, a race against the clock. Bands of white smoke appeared at either end of the pitch, and Émilie positioned herself directly behind the one at their end. Anxiously, Draco waited for her to start. Émilie was a damned fast flyer, but after the two drills she’d already completed, she had to be feeling some fatigue. She’d flown hard, and Potter had given her no time to catch her breath between exercises. 

Behind the starting line, Émilie lowered her body against her broom and shot forward, the smoky starting line swirling away on eddies of air in her wake before vanishing. The Quidditch pitch was the regulation five hundred feet long, and Émilie covered the distance like lightning and broke through the finishing line to more applause and cheers, including Draco’s own.

From opposite ends of the pitch, Potter and Émilie both flew to the ground near where Draco stood waiting. As she grew closer, Draco could see the radiant smile that lit up Émilie’s face. She’d flown well, and she knew it. As soon as she was on the ground, she hurried to him excitedly and out of breath.

“ _Bravo_ , Émilie! _Bien joué_! _Je savais que tu en étais capable _.”__

“ _Merci, Monsieur_ ," she said radiantly. “’Ow did I do, Mr Potter?” she asked Potter in English as soon as he joined them. 

__Draco turned to Potter. Whilst he wasn’t Draco’s normal type at all, the sight of Potter fresh from flying was something to appreciate. His normally wild hair was even more so from being windblown, and whilst the Quidditch training robes he wore were nothing special, just simple plain black, there was no denying the man filled them out damned well. Add the dark shadow that had appeared along his jawline, and Potter was not at all unattractive._ _

__“You did every well. Very well, indeed,” Potter answered Émilie. Turning to Draco, he said, “You weren’t exaggerating at all.”_ _

__“I missed seven of the obstacles,” Émilie said critically._ _

__Potter winked at her. “My first time through, I missed eight.”_ _

__“Really?” she asked, eyes wide and slack-jawed._ _

__“Really. You did extremely well.” Potter nodded at Draco before turning back to Émilie. “If you’ve not got your heart set on flying for a French team, have Professor Malfoy send me an owl before a match, and I’ll see about getting the Cannon’s Seeking scout out here to take a look at you—with your parents’ permission.”_ _

__Émilie’s eyes went impossibly wide. “Really?” she asked again, her voice an octave higher than normal._ _

__“Now, I can’t make any promises beyond that, mind. But, yes, really,” Potter confirmed with an indulgent laugh. “You show definite potential.”_ _

__Émilie’s hand went to her chest as if out of breath, an expression of disbelief and delight on her face._ _

__Draco stared at Potter incredulously. He wanted to grab his arm and yank him off the pitch—what did he think he was doing, making a promise like that? Yes, Potter had been instrumental in turning the Cannon’s fortunes around, and it was true they owed a great deal of their current success to him, but claiming he could get one of the their scouts to come to France to watch a teenager fly . . . What did he think he was doing?_ _

__Draco was just about to try to say something to keep Émilie’s hopes from getting too built up when they were joined on the Pitch by the rest of the assembled crowed. Her friends gathered around her possessively, each wanting to be the first to congratulate her. The Quidditch school students looked up at her in fascination, and even the retired professional players all looked distinctly impressed and congratulated her on an impressive flight._ _

__Draco looked at Potter severely, and Potter had the nerve to smile at him—if he had got Émilie’s hopes up and then failed to deliver, Draco swore the title of the Boy Who Lived would no longer apply._ _

“ _Tu devrais aller rejoindre tes amis pour fêter ça_ ,” Draco told Émilie, as it looked like they were about to carry her off any moment. Turning to Potter with narrowed eyes, he said,“ _J'ai deux mots à dire à Monsieur Potter._ ”

At least now, Draco noted, Potter had the decency to look sheepish.

The crowd broke up, with the retired players going off to do whatever they’d planned with their evenings and the kids returning to the palace.

Once they were alone, Potter asked, “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy.”

Draco rounded on him. “How could you make her a promise like that? Do you have any idea how crushed—”

“I specifically said I couldn’t make her any promises. The scouts have free reign when it comes to new recruits. I have no say in that.”

“Oh?” Draco asked condescendingly. “You don’t? What makes you think you’ve even got any say in who the scouts take a look at?”

“I own the team.” 

“Just because you flew—What? You . . . What? You own . . .”

“The Cannons. Yes.”

“Oh,” Draco said after several seconds when the news had fully sunk in. “So, if you say you want a French teenager looked at . . . ?”

“She gets looked at.”

“Oh,” Draco repeated. “Well, that’s . . . that’s different, then. That’s . . . that’s very good, then.”

“Look, Malfoy—Draco—it’s not widely known, about my owning the Cannons, and I’d like it to remain that way.”

“Right. No, I completely understand,” Draco said. He’d made a mess of things, and he knew it. He began to apologise. He should have known Harry Potter, of all people, would never promise someone something he couldn’t deliver, even if he’d not known the how of it, and he said as much.

“It doesn’t matter.” Potter shrugged. “You care about your students,” he said with sincerity. 

It pleased Draco far more than it should have to hear Potter acknowledge something positive about him. He was happy with the new life he’d built for himself after his old one had fallen to pieces, and he knew he really shouldn’t care if Potter saw something decent and worthy in him—but he did care, and it surprised him just how much.

“That’s nothing to apologise for,” Potter added. He looked very self-conscious, slipping his hands into his robe pockets and glancing around the pitch.

This was the first time they’d ever been alone together, Draco realised, suddenly feeling as awkward as Potter looked. It had never been just the two of them before, someone else—usually a lot of someone elses—was always there. Against his better judgement, Draco couldn’t help but wonder whether they might not have been friends had there not been all the someone elses. 

But that was as pointless as searching for Leprechaun gold. Knowing what he did now, Draco knew he’d blown any chance of a friendship with Potter the very day they’d met—when they were eleven years old and being fitted for their first Hogwarts robes. Not for the first time, Draco wished he could go back in time and tell his younger self to sit down and shut up.

“I’d best collect the Bludgers,” Potter said drawing his wand from his pocket. 

As Draco watched, the two Bludgers dropped from the sky and deposited themselves neatly into their crate. “Any interesting plans for tonight?” he found himself asking before he’d had the chance to think better of it.

“Just a bit of a fly over around the mountains followed by dinner and a book.” Potter answered as he secured the Snitch in its proper place. He locked up the crate and levitated it. The lid of the crate was marked with a bright orange shield and two large black Cs. “I had my house-elf fetch it from the office and bring it to me after we talked at lunch,” Potter explained, indicating the crate.

“You do understand your afternoons and evenings are free, right? You’re under no obligation to remain at the palace after your morning sessions.”

“I’ve not really got anywhere to go,” Potter said with a nonchalant lift of one shoulder. “And the mountains are beautiful to fly over. I had my house-elf pack my camera, and I got some nice photos.”

Draco was incredulous. Certainly, Potter didn’t mean to spend a week—or possibly two—in France and do nothing but fly over the Pyrenees—beautiful though they were—before going to bed with a book? “You’re in France, Potter—go somewhere. See something.”

“Where do you suggest?”

“Anywhere!”

“Anywhere, where?” Potter asked him with a small laugh. 

“Paris, the Loire Valley, _le Chateau de Versailles_ , Lyon, Mont Saint-Michel, Aix-en-Provence, _la Côte d'Azur_ , Strasbourg.” Draco could have gone on and on.

“Sightseeing by oneself . . .” Potter ran a hand through his hair, and Draco’s eyes followed his fingers through the jet black strands of their own accord. “I don’t speak a word of French, and I doubt there are translation charms in place at the Eiffel Tower.”

For the second time, Draco spoke without thinking. “I speak French.”

Potter looked at him in surprise, but not, Draco didn’t think, as if he was about to laugh in his face. He had to be half-mad, Draco told himself, but in those impulsively spoken three words he’d issued an invitation, and since he couldn’t pull them back—and it didn’t seem they were about to be thrown back at him—there was really nothing to do but see the thing through. He felt an uncomfortable pressure in his chest, easily the worst case of nerves he’d felt at inviting a man to dinner in years—ridiculous, really, given that it was Potter and not someone he was attracted to—but he said, “If you do nothing else, you cannot leave France without at least dining at a pavement café in Paris.”

Potter didn’t answer immediately. He studied Draco silently for what felt like a very long time as if he was trying to decide whether he’d really just been invited to dinner or if Draco was taking the piss.

Draco felt rather like a potion in a cauldron being carefully studied for any unexpected reactions, but he pushed on. “To get a good seat outside though, it’s best to arrive earlier rather than later.”

“Er, yeah. Yeah, okay,” Potter stammered. “Why not?” He ran a hand through his hair a second time, as if trying to smooth it down. “I’ll need to change.” He indicated his black Quidditch robes. “Muggles will think I’m dressed up like Darth Vader,” he said with a small laugh.

Draco didn’t know what a Darth Vader was, but he said, “ _Bien_ ,” feeling unaccountably relieved. It was only Potter, after all. What would it have mattered had he refused? Still, he was glad he’d asked and that Potter had accepted—the man had not only agreed at the last minute to stay on and fill Krum’s empty spot, but he’d also helped Émilie. Draco was grateful to him, and an invitation to dinner seemed an appropriate way to thank him properly. Really, he told himself now, he ought to have thought of it sooner. “There’s a Floo terminal in _la Place des Vosges_ and from there, it’s just a short walk. I’ll meet you at your quarters at,” Draco checked his watch, “say, eight?”

Potter agreed. “Eight, then.”

.~*~. 

In his room after returning to the palace, Harry pulled a jumper from the wardrobe and slid his arms into the sleeves. He shook his head and laughed to himself as he slipped his wand into a concealed pocket. He was having dinner with Draco Malfoy at a pavement café in Paris. What Ron and Hermione would say when he told them, Harry couldn’t imagine. They probably wouldn’t believe it. Hell, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. Pity it was Malfoy, really. Dinner at a pavement café in Paris would be one hell of a date. International Portkeys to France weren’t difficult to arrange. He’d have to remember it next time he met a man he really liked.

Looking in the mirror, Harry ran his hands through his hair. Hopeless as ever, it was. He abandoned the futile attempt to make his hair lay flat for once, but continued to study his reflection. The rusty brown colour of the jumper brought out the green in his eyes—or so he’d been told. Personally, he didn’t see it. He did think it fit him well, though. Especially his shoulders. He’d paired the jumper with jeans and black trainers. He didn’t know what one wore for dinner at a café in Paris—casual, he reckoned, but this was Malfoy, after all. He doubted his idea of casual was the same as Malfoy’s.

Malfoy . . . Harry was afraid this was going to be a very uncomfortable evening. What could they possibly find to talk about, he wondered? He could see the other man had changed from who he’d been before the war. And it certainly seemed he was a good teacher, if Émilie’s praise of him that morning was anything to go by. Professor Dumbledore had once told Harry that if you wanted to see what a man was really like, you should take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals. Émilie had told Harry she was a Muggle-born that morning; it had come up when he’d asked her about flying as a child. Malfoy had been raised to despise Muggle-borns and everything about the Muggle world, but he had approached Harry about her hopes of playing professional Quidditch, and when he believed Harry had been giving her false hope about being scouted by a professional team, he’d shown how protective of her he was. Hell, he’d nearly shaken with anger where he stood. That had spoken to Harry more of the man Draco had become than anything else could have done. But that aside, Harry feared they’d end up sitting in an awkward silence, both wishing they were somewhere else.

.~*~. 

They stepped out of the Floo terminal into a long, sheltered arcade filled with various shops and cafés, where a number of outdoor tables were half-filled with customers. The sun was at a low enough angle in the sky that the arcade was filled with warm, evening light, and long shadows cast by stone pillars stretched across the pavement.

“This is _la Place des Vosges_ ,” Draco said as they passed through an arch and out onto the pavement. Across the street was a large square enclosed by a tall, black fence, inside which were what had to be well over one hundred small, ornamental trees. Built over the arcade they’d just exited were stately looking homes, all featuring the same façade of red brick with decorative pale-coloured stone masonry work and steeply pitched, grey slate roofs with dormer windows. “It is the oldest square in Paris,” he continued. As they passed through one of the gates into the square, he went on to say, “It was built in the early seventeenth century by Henry IV on what was once a site were jousting tournaments were held.”

“It’s beautiful,” Harry responded. 

He looked around them. The square was filled with all kinds of people: old and young, families and couples and groups of friends his own age or a few years younger. People walked along unhurriedly, like they themselves were doing, or they sat and relaxed on benches or on blankets spread out on the grass. Inside the square, beyond the perfectly straight rows of neatly trimmed ornamental trees, the square was divided into four quarters by wide, paved walkways. Each of the quarters was bisected by a narrower walkway, at the centre of which stood an ornate, two-tiered fountain. 

Nearby one particular family enjoying a picnic dinner on the grass caught Harry’s attention. A man knelt on a blanket, a camera in his hands pointed at a second man and a baby boy, who Harry guessed was about one year old. The second man stood behind the child holding his hands as the child took a few tentative steps towards the man with the camera. Both men cheered as the child let go of the second man’s hands and fell as much as walked into the first man’s arms.

“It was here where Henry II was killed after an accident during a jousting tournament,” Draco said.

Harry’s attention was immediately pulled from his gazing. “I remember seeing that on some programme on the telly once. Some documentary or historical thing or something, it must’ve been. Probably something Hermione had on sometime. She loves those. Freak accident, wasn’t it? Bit of a lance went through his helmet, didn’t it? Got him through the eye. Or something like that, I think it was.” Harry was surprised he’d been paying enough attention to whatever the show had been to remember that, but his surprise that he remembered it was nothing compared to his surprise that Draco knew it. 

“Exactly that,” Draco confirmed.

Harry itched to ask Draco how he knew how a French king had died centuries ago, but he refrained. Things seemed to be going well, and he didn’t want to risk upsetting that. 

When they exited the square, Draco pointed down the street. “Just down that way is _la Maison de Victor Hugo_.”

Harry looked in the direction Draco pointed, wondering again at his knowledge of the Muggle world. 

Leaving the square, Draco led Harry down a narrow one-way street lined with fashionable shops. Traffic flowed towards them, and a motor bike sped past. The area was bustling, the way all big cities were, and there was graffiti here and there, but it was beautiful and charming. The buildings that lined the street were three or four storeys tall and built of pale-coloured stone, but the shops that occupied the ground floors were painted rich colours. 

“Have you been a flying instructor long?” Harry asked conversationally. 

“Since shortly after mother and I arrived in France.”

“I wondered where you’d gone,” he admitted. At Draco’s sceptical expression, he asked, “What? I did. It didn’t keep me up nights, mind, but I did wonder. You just seemed to vanish into thin air.”

They passed a large stone building with an elaborate black iron and gilt entry gate bearing a coat of arms over two large doors. A large red banner hung beside the gate, “ _Musée Carnavalet, Histoire de Paris_ ” written in large letters. 

“It’s called Disapparition—vanishing into thin air. Wizards do it all the time,” Draco said in a condescending tone that Harry found amusing rather than irritating. His mates would’ve probably said much the same in much the same way.

“Funny.”

Draco’s face looked amused, but his expression changed in front of Harry’s eyes. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You were right, you know,” he said looking down at his feet. “I should’ve told them what I was up to. Cra—Crabbe and Goyle, I mean. Maybe then they might’ve listened to me later, after . . . when . . .” Draco’s voice had got softer with every word, until it trailed off completely.

Harry remembered their first Apparition class at Hogwarts, how he’d positioned himself directly behind Malfoy and Crabbe to eavesdrop on their argument. _“I tell my friends what I’m up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me,”_ he’d said, just loud enough for the two Slytherins to hear.

Draco inhaled and exhaled, and, having pulled himself together, he gestured to the corner in front of them. “We turn here, and then the café I had in mind is just ahead.” Walking in silence, they turned the corner. “Sorry about that. I can get quite morbid all of a sudden sometimes,” he said apologetically.

Harry glanced around self-consciously, thinking about the nightmares he still suffered from occasionally. They were passing a bakery, its windows filled with wonderful looking loaves of bread and brightly coloured sandwich biscuits; across the street was a shop selling Italian gelato. He cleared his throat. “I think everyone who participated in the war goes through that. I know I do.”

They arrived at a café with a maroon awning stretched out over a row of tables set so close together, Harry didn’t know how the person seated at the back of the table took their seat without picking the table up and sliding it out of his way. Half the tables were filled with diners, but, while he didn’t say anything, Harry thought they were both too near the busy road and too near your neighbours to really enjoy a meal.

“Good. I thought it’d not be full yet. If we’re lucky . . . ,” Draco said as he walked past several open tables. The café was set on a corner: to one side was the street and to the other a tree-lined, brick alleyway with a street sign showing it was closed to traffic—Harry might not have been able to read a word of what was written on the sign, but the circle with a line drawn through it above a picture of a car being towed made their meaning clear enough. That, and the absence of any cars. “Yes, this is better,” Draco said. He caught the eye of a waiter as he claimed one of a small cluster of tables next to the brick pavement. “Farther from the traffic and not quite so very cramped together,” he added as if he’d read Harry’s mind. 

A menu was posted near the table Draco had claimed, and Harry looked over it. “Um, do they have an English menu?”

Draco smirked. “ _Non._ You will just have to trust me, now. _N'est-ce pas_?”

“Just don’t order me snails, yeah?” Harry said as he sat. The café had a wood panelled exterior and large windows. Their table was beside a tree and a narrow flower bed, and the chairs were wicker with caned seats and backs. Really, the spot was beautiful—intimate but still humming with activity. Also good, the table closest to them was occupied by a couple speaking German, or possibly Dutch, and so they were able to speak more freely than had English speaking Muggles been sitting there. “Nice place.”

“This is one of the main streets in _Le Marais_. Just sitting and watching people go by is one of the best things to do in Paris, and I think this is one of the best places to do it.” 

A waiter approached them. “ _Bienvenue aux Philosophes_ ,” he said. He continued to speak, but that was the extent of what Harry understood, and only that much because the name of the café was written on the awning. When Draco answered the man in French, Harry watched him, fascinated. He’d wondered yesterday what Draco’s voice sounded like when he spoke French, and now he had his answer—hypnotic. While he knew Draco and the waiter were talking about ordinary things like what the soup or specials _du jour_ might be, Harry was entranced.

“ _Merci _,” Draco said, and the waiter left. “You’re out of luck, Potter. All they’ve got on the menu today are snails.”__

__Harry laughed and looked around them, watching people go by as Draco had said. It was relaxing. At home, he often liked to go to a park, maybe Covent Garden or St. James, and just sit and quietly watch the world walk past._ _

__“I ordered us a glass of wine,” Draco said. He repeated the specials and asked if Harry had an idea of what he wanted. “I asked for menus, if you’d rather something else.”_ _

__Harry said he reckoned one had to have French onion soup while in France._ _

__With a dramatic sigh, Draco leaned forward, elbows on the table, and pressed his fingertips against the bridge of his nose. He shook his head in mock exasperation. “Onion soup, Potter. Unless you want the wait staff to roll their eyes at you behind your back, you do not order French onion soup in France.”_ _

__“I can’t order steak tartare well done then, either, I reckon.”_ _

__“Only if you’re sure you can remember the way back to the Floo terminal on your own.”_ _

__They both laughed, but then fell into a silence that threatened to become uncomfortable. At times it was easier making conversation with Malfoy than Harry’d expected, but at other times it was every bit as awkward as he’d feared. Anxious to break the silence before it could drag on, Harry looked around at all the people filing passed the café, hoping to find something to comment on. There were all types: fashionable Parisians and not-so-fashionable tourists, couples and groups of friends and several people, both men and women, carrying shopping bags from the numerous boutiques that lined the streets. Across the pavement, one man stood beside a doorway, smoking a cigarette. A moment later, the door opened and another man exited—the two greeted each other with a kiss before walking away together._ _

__Harry blinked in surprise and looked away hurriedly._ _

__“Does that bother you?” Draco asked, his voice tight and defensive._ _

“No,” Harry answered, feeling a little defensive himself. He couldn’t say he’d ever kiss a man he was in a relationship with in public like that—he was just naturally private about such things, even without the threat of negative comments from strangers or seeing it on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ the next morning—but seeing another couple do it, a little voice inside his head cheered them on, even if he had felt a bit like a peeping Tom seeing it. 

__“I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m a little over sensitive on the subject.”_ _

__If Harry had been about to say something else, it died in his throat, completely forgotten. Had he got the reason Draco had been less than pleased with the attentions of that witch at lunch completely wrong?_ _

__The waiter returned with their menus, which Harry accepted gratefully. He opened the menu more out of habit than out of practicality since he couldn’t read a word of it. “To say two men kissing bothered me would be hypocritical,” he added with some reluctance as he glanced up at Draco._ _

__Surprise registered in Draco’s face, and the awkward silence returned._ _

__Grasping at straws, Harry commented what a good idea the Quidditch school had been. “I’d have loved to have gone to something like this as a kid.”_ _

__“I, too,” Draco admitted, seemingly as eager to keep the thread of conversation on safe ground as Harry was. “But it wasn’t my idea. We have our Muggle Studies professor to thank,” he added drily. “Apparently, schools like this are very popular in some countries in the Muggle world.”_ _

__Harry didn’t respond. The rancour Malfoy spoke with surprised him. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. The evidence of seeing how Malfoy had been with Émilie weighed too heavily with him._ _

__“It isn’t that I don’t think it’s a good idea. It is,” Malfoy quickly added. “And while we’re only a day in, it seems to be going well. The kids all seem to being enjoying it so far, and I’ve made it a full twenty-four hours without hexing any of the professional players into radishes.”_ _

__“Have the other players been giving you a hard time?” Harry asked, with a small laugh._ _

Their waiter returned with their wine and spoke to Draco, who responded, “ _On n’est pas encore décidés, désolé._ ” 

__Harry looked down at the flowers in the bed beside their table—anything to avoid looking at Draco just then. It was so stupid, but if his voice had sounded well speaking French a few moments ago, it sounded doubly so now._ _

__“Not all, but some. I think Mallard and Lafarge are on the verge of ripping open their pillows and counting the feathers to be sure the other hasn’t got more. That, or using their pillows to suffocate the other.”_ _

__“I’m surprised you’ve got both of them here,” Harry said, his wine glass in his hand. He’d have liked to have drunk it down in one go, and then called the water over for a bottle. “Their rivalry is famous, even back at home.”_ _

__For a moment, Draco’s body language stiffened, but he relaxed again almost immediately._ _

__“The fallout from having one without the other would’ve been worse, trust me. And not having them was unthinkable—they’re adored here, for good reason. They really are excellent with the kids. They’ve always been very good with their fans. It’s just anyone who has the misfortune to have to work with them who they drive mental.” Speaking sincerely, he added. “I really would like to thank you for staying on, and for being so agreeable.”_ _

__Feeling a little embarrassed, Harry said it really hadn’t been an inconvenience._ _

__“I doubt that,” Draco said. “The owner of a Quidditch team in the race for first place for the first time in a hundred years, dropping everything on his schedule on a moment’s notice to teach children to play the game?”_ _

__“I don’t involve myself in the day-to-day running of the team very much anymore. Make it a point not to, actually.”_ _

__On the safe topic of Quidditch, they talked comfortably for several minutes about the Cannons’ turnaround and what all went into accomplishing it—mostly, Harry explained, finding the right players and assembling the right team behind the team: managers, coaches, trainers, scouts, etc.—and then staying out of their way and letting them do the job they’d been hired to do._ _

__“That was a key problem before.” When he’d played for the Cannons, the team had been owned by the same family for generations, and too many members of that family had been making too many decisions regarding the management of the team and hiring of players and staff they’d really not had the expertise to be making. “It took a while to fix what was wrong. There was a lot more I needed to handle personally back then, but we’re in a good place now.”_ _

__The conversation moved on to the team’s chances for claiming first place, and from there back to the school._ _

__“It was the Muggle Studies professor’s idea, you said?”_ _

__“Madame Canfield,” Draco confirmed. “Well, she turned the Ministry onto the idea.”_ _

__“I’ve not met her.”_ _

__“No. Nor will you. She’s not here.”_ _

__“Ah. I see,” Harry said, believing he now understood Draco’s earlier sarcasm._ _

__“She’s American. Insists on calling it summer ‘camp.’”_ _

__“Seems an odd thing to call it.”_ _

__“One would think she expects tents to be pitched all over the grounds,” Draco agreed. “Anyway, she’ll be leaving after next year.”_ _

__“You don’t seem like you’ll miss her.”_ _

__Draco drank his wine, a pensive look on his face. “She comes from money, and she’s accustomed to throwing her weight around and getting what she wants, while leaving all the work to others. If I’m being honest, she hits a little too close to home.”_ _

__Wanting to keep the conversation from drifting somewhere too personal for a second time, Harry changed the subject. “We passed a bakery a few shops up the road with all these colourful little biscuits in the window. I thought I might buy some and send them home as gifts.”_ _

__“Macarons, they’ll be. Brilliant little biscuits. I can tell you the best places to find them—and the places to avoid if you don’t want to wait half an hour or longer in a queue to pay €3 a piece for flavours like _fois gras_ and lime or strawberry and wasabi.”_ _

__“Er, I was thinking more like vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, lemon.”_ _

__“Not very daring when it comes to trying new foods?”_ _

__“I admit, I’m pretty plain. Meat and potatoes, and I’m a happy man.”_ _

__Draco picked up his menu. “Fortunately, we eat meat and potatoes in France, too. I recommend the beef bourguignon and mash. The gazpacho here is very good too, if you don’t have your heart set on onion soup.”_ _

__“Gazpacho? In Paris?”_ _

__“And made by a Japanese chef.”_ _

____

.~*~. 

After Harry awoke the next morning, he stayed in bed for several minutes thinking about last night. All in all, it had been a very pleasant evening. There had been some moments early on when the atmosphere had been tense, but they’d got through them, and after they had, conversation had come surprisingly easy. They’d stayed with safe topics, true, but Draco had an unexpectedly dry sense of humour that Harry found he quite enjoyed. Harry had gone down to breakfast in the dining hall rather hoping to see him again and had been disappointed when he’d been nowhere to be found. Now, heading out to his morning classes, he wondered whether they might run into each other at lunch as they had yesterday.

“Good morning, Meester Potter,” Émilie greeted him. 

She’d spoken in English, and Harry reckoned he could manage a simple _bonjour_.

Émilie grinned in response. She eyed him carefully as if summing him up before saying somewhat shyly, “I ‘ope you enjoyed your dinner wizz Meester Malfoy in _Le Marais_ last night.” She’d spoken slowly, carefully pronouncing each word, but there was a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

“Now, how do you possibly know about that?” Harry asked.

Émilie shrugged and waved her hand nonchalantly through the air. Her face was a mask of innocence, apart from the sparkle that remained in her eyes. “Everyone knows it.”

Harry blinked and was left speechless for several seconds.

Falling back in to her natural French and turning serious, she said, “There are very few students from the United Kingdom, I think. Far fewer than from other countries. All of us Beauxbatons students have noticed it.”

“Er, yes. There are,” Harry admitted. He felt almost guilty for the fact under Émilie’s scrutiny. 

“Because of the things Mr Malfoy did during the war, yes?” she asked bluntly.

Uncomfortable, Harry busied himself with the box containing the practice Snitches Draco had given him to use during his lessons. Émilie was one of Draco’s students, and Harry didn’t think he’d appreciate Harry’s talking about his involvement with the war with her. 

“But you are here,” Émilie continued while he’d still been contemplating how to respond. 

Harry looked at his assistant. Had he give it any thought, he’d have expected her to immediately launch into questions about the flying exercises he’d put her through yesterday and if he really thought she’d done that well. 

“I know more about what Draco’s—Mr Malfoy’s—actions were during the war than people who only read articles written with the intent of stirring up emotions and with very little attention paid to the facts.” He also knew Draco had held his life in his hands twice, yet there he stood. “He showed tremendous bravery on more than one occasion,” Harry said feeling a little like he was presenting an award. It was true, though. He would never forget seeing Draco clutching Gregory Goyle’s unconscious body in the Room of Hidden Things, trying desperately to keep them both from falling. “And he is fiercely loyal to those he cares about,” he said.

“And that is why you are here?” she asked, her head tipped to a slight angle. 

Harry laughed. He was here for two reasons: He hadn’t wanted to be away from Teddy for two weeks, and Draco had been desperate to replace Krum. But as to why Andromeda and he hadn’t cancelled Teddy’s enrolment like so many others had, she was largely correct.

“Mr Malfoy is a good man,” she said. “But he has not been happy, I do not think.” An enigmatic smile spread across her face. “There is an excursion tomorrow afternoon to the _Lac des Champs Elysées_ . That is a favourite place of Mr Malfoy’s, I believe. Perhaps he will go.” 

The children arrived for their first lesson of the day, led by another one of the Beauxbaton’s students working at the school. 

“I am glad you are here, Mr Potter,” Émilie said, glancing back at him as she stepped forward to greet the children and their escort.

.~*~. 

Draco was once again sitting in his office in front of stacks of parchments. He’d allowed himself a bit of a lie-in that morning and had had the school’s elves send his breakfast to his quarters, but now it was back to work. He was reading over the evaluations the retired players had given him of their first groups of students. All the kids had arrived able to fly a minimum of twenty feet off the ground, which was good. It had been a stipulation of enrolment, but regardless, he’d not have been surprised if that had not been the case.

Standing, he walked over to his window and looked out at all the various groups of children on their brooms all over the grounds. He smiled, pleased with the work so many of his Beauxbatons students were doing. 

His eyes drifted across the grounds towards the spot where he knew Potter and his group were located. He’d enjoyed their dinner the night before rather more than he’d expected. A lot more. Potter had been tactful when Draco’s occasional melancholy had snuck up on him, and he’d been both funny and interesting to talk with. They’d both tacitly redirected the conversation when it threatened to veer into dangerous waters, but that hadn’t happened often. They’d found enough to talk about, and when Draco had told him about some of the more interesting bits of Muggle France’s history he’d learnt from François over the two years they’d been together, he’d listened attentively. Draco even thought Potter had been particularly impressed by his knowledge on the subject. As he had yesterday after Potter’d had Émilie fly drills for him, Draco felt gratified that Potter saw something worthwhile in him. 

Only because Potter had saved his life, Draco told himself. He was glad Potter saw that his life had been worth saving, that he hadn’t risked his own, and those of his closest friends, only for Draco to go on being the same as he’d been before.

A knock at the door drew Draco away from the window, and returning to his desk, he called, “ _Entrez_.”

One of his Beauxbatons students came in, a seventeen year old called Philippe, one of the Chasers for Malecrit House. " _Bonjour, Monsieur_ ," he said as he handed him some letters that had arrived in the post the night before whilst he’d been away from the school.

“ _Est-ce que vous serez là pour l’excursion au Lac des Champs Elysées demain, Monsieur_?" Phillippe asked in a tone that, after all the years he’d spent working with teenagers, set Draco on his guard. 

“ _Pourquoi_?" he asked suspiciously. 

“ _Émilie m’a dit que M. Potter avait particulièrement envie de venir, et comme vous aviez diné avec lui à Le Marais hier soir, je—_ ”

“ _Et comment est-ce que tu sais ça_?" 

Draco resisted the urge to sigh. He was well aware how quickly news spread at Beauxbatons. At Hogwarts, it was only the portraits covering almost every square inch of the walls which talked; at Beauxbatons, Draco thought it was the walls themselves, if not the very blades of grass. Or maybe it just seemed that way to him now that he was almost thirty rather than fourteen. “ _Ou bien est-ce que je ne devrais même pas demander_?” Never wanting a student of his to feel they had no one to turn to if they found themselves in trouble in any way, he’d always striven to build a relaxed student/professor relationship with his Quidditch players. Perhaps he’d succeeded too much. 

“ _Non, Monsieur. Peut-être pas_ ,” Philippe said with a grin Draco never would’ve given one of his professors.

“ _Tu peux y aller_ ,” Draco said, breaking the wax seal on one of his letters.

“ _Oui, Monsieur. Au revoir, Monsieur_ ,” Philippe responded with feigned formality.

Once the door closed, Draco set the letter down on his desk unread. _Alors, Potter joining prévu de venir demain après-midi à l’excursion au Lac des Champs Elysées._ The resort was so popular with French wizards that the name _Champs Elysées_ brought images of the lake to the minds of French wizards as instantly as they did traffic, noise, and hordes of tourists to the minds of French Muggles. But it was virtually unknown to British wizards. He was rather surprised Potter’d ever heard of it. 

Picking up the previously abandoned letter, Draco tapped it on its edge against his desk. He’d not planned to accompany any of the afternoon excursions they'd arranged, but he did love the _Lac des Champs Elysées_. There was nothing so pressing on his calendar that it couldn’t be put off until the following day. Perhaps he would go. He’d put in quite a lot of work for the school, why shouldn’t he take an afternoon off? 

Yes, Draco decided, that was just what he would do. 

.~*~. 

That afternoon at lunch, Émilie passed Philippe and another friend of theirs. They caught each other’s eye and winked.

.~*~. 

When Harry returned to his room that night his feet ached, and he dropped himself down on his bed, his arms flung out to the sides. He’d given a bit of solitary sightseeing a go, and he felt exhausted and rather disappointingly underwhelmed. He’d gone to the Eiffel Tower, and it was . . . well, a tower. A pretty tower, yes, but a tower. With queues that would have taken him hours to get through. He didn’t know why, but as world famous as it was, he’d expected something more. He’d got a photo, said “oh” and “ah” and left. The _Arc de Triomphe_ was beautiful, but with the circle of traffic swarming around it—without the aid of lanes or traffic lights—he’d had no idea how to get to it short of Apparating. He had got another nice photo, though. Next, he’d walked along the Champs Elysees, where there where quite possibly more people packed in than at a World Cup championship match, and something to drink had cost him €8. For a street called the most beautiful in the world, there had been rather a lot of Muggle retail chains, and while the architecture of the buildings was unquestionably beautiful, the two rows of trees had not been enough to screen the noise from the ten lanes of traffic. He hadn’t even bothered to take a photo. His last stop had been the world famous Louvre museum to see the equally famous Mona Lisa. The gallery which housed the painting—which was far smaller than he’d realised—was so crammed with visitors, he’d been jostled by people trying to get closer and elbowed in the side of the head by someone trying to take a photo.

All in all, he’d had a much nicer time when he’d had dinner with Draco the night before. 

Sitting up, Harry opened a paper bag containing the treats he’d bought himself. By far the highlights of his afternoon were the fact that not one single person had paid the least bit of attention to him, and the contents of this bag. He pulled a black box with fancy silver embossing from inside the bag and opened it eagerly. Macarons—Draco had been right, bloody brilliant they were. Indulging himself, Harry chose a pistachio with dark chocolate filling and bit into it. He hummed with pleasant surprise—not the pistachio at all, but rather the mint. In addition to the mostly safe flavours he’d chosen, he’d also tried some more unusual ones, but nothing so out there as strawberry and wasabi or—what was the other Draco had said, _fois gras_ and lime? He’d even tried a rose flavoured one, but he hadn’t cared for at all. Tasted like the soap Hermione kept in the guest loo.

He hadn’t seen Draco at all that day, but he hoped he would tomorrow. As he finished the macaron, Harry wondered which flavour was Draco’s favourite. Maybe he should’ve picked up a small box as a thank you gift for dinner yesterday.

.~*~. 

Wednesday morning brought the first accident of any real significance; though, fortunately the injuries had been minor. The Charms professor had seen to it that the grounds were covered with protective charms to safeguard the children attending the school. They would be protected if they crashed landed or flew into the goal posts or Quidditch stands—or anything else. The only thing that hadn’t been protected by cushioning charms were the students themselves, and that morning, two boys had collided nearly head on. Fortunately, a badly sprained shoulder had been the worst of the injuries, and Draco had healed that, along with a few bumps and bruises, easily. As a precaution, he’d contacted the Beauxbatons’ mediwizard, who’d agreed to make himself available to treat any injuries beyond Draco’s ability, and he’d come and checked both boys over for concussion or any other injuries. After they’d been pronounced sound as Snitches, Draco’d had to contact the boys’ families to make them aware of the accident.

That had been his morning, and now that it was drawing time for the carriage to depart for the _Lac des Champs Elysées_ excursion, he was more than ready to get away for a few hours.

The carriage stood outside the west courtyard with a throng of students and several chaperones standing nearby, waiting to board. The gamekeeper tended to the dozen Abraxans, hovering around their massive heads on a broom and checking their harnesses. He called down to Draco that they would be ready to go presently.

Draco saw Potter standing in the centre of the group of about forty children, including the British students, and talking to Émilie and her friend Nicole Pape, the second Chaser for Malecrit House. The thought that maybe he ought not accompany the afternoon trip after all occurred to him briefly, but Draco pushed it aside. He’d not seen Potter since they’d returned to the palace the night before last, and Draco wondered if he’d ventured out to see something of France yesterday afternoon and evening. Besides, there was something about hearing English spoken properly—without Madame Canfield’s dreadfully nasal American accent—that appealed to him far more than he’d have expected it to.

Next to Potter was his impossibly orange-haired godson. It might not have been appropriate, but Draco admitted he’d paid particular attention to the comments made about young Mr Lupin by the retired pro players. By all accounts, he was quite a good little flyer. Draco wondered if his mother had played whilst she’d been at Hogwarts.

“ _Bonjour, Monsieur Malfoy,_ ” Nicole greeted him. “ _Les enfants sont tous prêts._ ”

“ _Très bien. On peut monter, alors_?” he responded.

The children were escorted into the carriage by Nicole, Émilie and the other Beauxbatons students chaperoning the excursion and Harry and Draco followed them up the stairs.

“Nicole was just telling me how nice the _Lac des Champs Elysées_ is,” Potter remarked.

Draco responded that it was considered by some to be the most beautiful place in the world.

“Are you one of them?”

“Without question.”

On board the carriage, Harry and Draco sat separately from the students, but Draco ran his eyes over them now and then. The school was going well, he though. There’d been a few kids who’d already known each other, but most had arrived as strangers. Now, three days in, groups of friends had been formed. He wanted to be sure there were no kids left out, that everyone was finding their way. 

“Teddy is enjoying the school so far?” Draco asked.

“First chance I’ve had to talk to him, really. I’ve not wanted to embarrass him. You know, hanging around when he wants to be with his new friends. But he’s loving it,” Harry answered, going on to recount how he’d got cold feet a couple of days before the school began. “I promised if he didn’t like it after a couple of days, I’d come get him. I think it’s safe to say he’s staying.”

“You’ve not noticed any kids seeming to have trouble making friends in your training sessions? They all seem to be getting on well?”

“Yes. Quite well. Monday they were a little stand-offish still, appraising each other, like. Less so, yesterday and today. I’ve not noticed any child in particular having difficulties, if you’re worried about that.”

“You’ll let me know if you do?”

“Of course. Have any of the other coaches raised concerns?”

“Oh, no. No, not at all. Just wanting to keep look out.”

It was not a long carriage ride to the _Lac des Champs Elysées_ , and they sat quietly for the rest of the journey: Harry looking out the window, watching the mountains pass by below them, and Draco reflecting on the improbability that there would have ever been even a comfortably civil relationship between them, let alone the relaxed way they’d come to interact in such a short time. He even dared to hope it wasn’t only amongst the students where friendships were being formed.

“I ventured into Paris yesterday afternoon,” Harry said as they landed.

“Did you?”

The children were led off the carriage by the chaperones, and Harry and Draco followed them down the stairs. Harry began to say something, but stopped. Draco turned to look at him— Potter was looking around them in amazement.

The _Lac des Champs Elysées_ was one of the hundreds, if not thousands, of glacial lakes that dotted the Pyrenees mountains. Sitting in a valley not far from the Atlantic Ocean, it enjoyed warm summer temperatures, while the permanently snow-capped mountain peaks were clearly visible in the distance. The water was a magnificent range of blue-green colours, from aquamarine at its shallowest to a dark teal at its deepest. On the side closest to them, the limestone that formed the lakebed extended well past the water’s edge, creating a solid stone beach, beyond which lay a grassy meadow with purple and pink wildflowers and large limestone boulders interrupting the field of green. On the far side of the lake, the earth rose up in a steep cliff, and a waterfall cascaded down from a mountain river.

“Well, what do you think?” Draco asked. “The most beautiful place on Earth, or not?”

Harry agreed.

“ _Les Champs Elysées_ ,” Draco said. “The Elysian Fields.”

“Is that what that means?” Harry asked. “It fits this place far better.”

The chaperones and children had staked out a spot of beach, and the chaperones were covering it with thick blankets as the children shed their robes in favour of the swim attire they wore beneath. 

Potter told him of his experiences the afternoon before, and Draco had to resist the overwhelming urge to role his eyes. He had made every rookie tourist mistake possible. True, though, it wasn’t as if it was the man’s fault. He hadn’t known he’d be spending more than a few hours in France until he’d arrived. Of course he hadn’t had any time to think about what—of everything Paris had to offer—he most wanted to see. Draco felt rather guilty. He should’ve thought of that and at the very least made recommendations on what not to do, if not what to see.

“Did find that place you recommended and bought some wonderful little macarons, though,” Harry said. “Didn’t try the _fois gras_ and wasabi, but the champagne and strawberry dipped in chocolate were lovely.”

“Champagne and strawberry?” Draco asked. That was not a flavour he’d have thought Potter have chosen.

“Had these little sugar roses and white chocolate swirls. Almost too pretty to eat.”

To the east of the lake stood a beautiful hotel, reflective of _la Belle Époque_ during which it had been built. Its pale pink façade with bright white decorative stonework and Juliette balconies was striking against the deep blue sky.

“They don’t serve a proper English tea, but their coffee is excellent and their pastries are even better,” Draco said as he guided Harry towards the hotel’s outdoor dining terrace. 

“Pudding before dinner is one of my favourite things,” Harry said. 

Draco rather agreed. He put it right up there with a nice long lie-in. Although lie-ins, like pudding before dinner, were best when shared.

They were greeted by the _maître d’hôtel_ , and Draco asked for a table on the terrace, adding they’d not be ordering a full meal, rather coffee and pudding.

“ _Merci_ ,” Draco said to the man once they’d been seated. “Paris is one of the world’s most interesting cities to visit, but you made two mistakes,” he said to Harry. “You tried to do too much in too little time, and you didn’t look into making any arrangements before your visit—not that you’d have had the time, given the circumstances.” He explained there was a pedestrian tunnel under the roadway to reach the _Arc de Triomphe_ , and tickets for the Eiffel Tower could be purchased in advance to avoid at least some of the queuing up—though there were better ways to see the tower. There was nothing, really, that could be done to improve a visit to the Avenue _des Champs-Elysees_ other than to advise skipping it entirely. “It may’ve once been the world’s most beautiful streets, but it’s been a long time since. Not since all the Muggle retail chains took up residence. Essentially, there are four types of people when it comes to the Avenue _des Champs-Elysees_ —the tourists who are impressed by designer names and who love it, the tourists who don’t care about any of that and are unimpressed by it, the rich Parisians who wish there weren’t so many tourists, and the rest of Paris who don’t think it’s anything remarkable.” Why someone would want to shop there when there was the option of such lovely boutiques and charming eighteenth and nineteenth century _passages couverts_ , Draco could never begin to imagine. “And as for the Mona Lisa, it draws too big a crowd and you’re kept too far back to be able to appreciate it, but the Louvre does have a vast collection of Muggle artworks well worth seeing.”

Harry replied that by that time, he’d only wanted to return to the palace, and he’d not spent long at the Louvre after leaving the Mona Lisa’s gallery.

Draco dropped his head into his hands. “Tomorrow, you and I are going to Paris,” he said. “You are going to see it properly.”

“I’ve got to ask, how do you know so much about Muggle Paris?” Harry asked sounding genuinely curious. “And French history?”

The table they’d been given was against the railing and had a lovely view of the lake and meadow. Before answering, Draco let his eyes roam. Their waiter approached the table, and Draco asked for wine and to be brought the cheese tray, buying himself more time.

“I’m sorry,” Potter hastened to say after the man had left. “It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have—”

“ _Non,_ ” Draco responded, slipping into French accidentally and earning himself a quizzical expression from Potter. “No,” he said, returning to English. “It’s nothing of any significance. Until recently, I was seeing a Muggle from Paris for two years. He was a historian.”

Harry made an appropriately sympathetic expression. “Two years sounds rather significant,” he said. He really had a very expressive face, Draco thought to himself. Charmingly so, in his own way. He’d not noticed it when they were younger, probably because the only expression either of them had ever given the other then was a sneer.

Draco shrugged, downplaying it. “It isn’t time that establishes intimacy. We were both keeping secrets from each other. I never told him I was a wizard. He never told me he was married.”

Harry winced. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry for me. I’m not the one who was in love with him.” Draco would never forget the way François’ wife had looked at him. She’d taken one look at him standing on her doorstep and her husband’s panicked, ashen face, and she’d known. Possibly, she’d had suspicions before, but she hadn’t known till that moment. “I’m more angry than anything else. Be sorry for his wife. I know I am.”

“Does Beauxbatons hire many non-French teachers?” Harry asked, tactfully changing the subject. 

His pronunciation of the name caught Draco’s attention immediately—not the typical English ‘boh-BAT-tons,’ but rather ‘bo – batton.’ After teaching at Beauxbatons for a year, Madame Canfield still didn’t pronounce the name correctly. 

“I don’t know of anyone from outside Britain ever teaching at Hogwarts,” Harry continued.

“No,” Draco answered stiffly. “Not usually.”

“I keep putting my foot in it, don’t I?” Harry asked, his face showing his embarrassment.

“Not at all. You recall I mentioned Madame Canfield comes from a wealthy family? Something put the notion in her head that teaching at a European school for a couple of years would be jolly fun, so her father made a donation to the school, and she got a job.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Seems very out of character for Madame Maxime.”

“Indeed. She was highly indignant. However, the donation was enough to provide full scholarships for ten students from disadvantaged families for the duration of their schooling.”

“Ah,” Harry said, nodding his head slowly in understanding. “An offer one can’t refuse.”

“Very much so, yes. It was an affront to her pride, but for the sake of the students and their families, she accepted both the money and Madame Canfield. And to be fair, she—Madame Canfield—does know the subject as well as anyone could. She’s a half-blood, raised in both worlds, and can move easily between them. No one could fault her knowledge and ability. No amount of money would have persuaded Madame Maxime to take her on otherwise.”

“And she’ll be leaving at the end of the coming school year? Teaching at a European school not as jolly much fun as she’d thought?”

“She was taken on for two years. She could apply to stay on, I suppose—”

Their waiter returned with their wine and a tray hovering beside him covered with several different cheeses and some nice red and green grapes. Not knowing what Harry might like, Draco made a selection of cheeses ranging from sharp to mild and hard to soft.

“But you hope she won’t,” Harry said once they were alone.

Draco broke a piece off a palm-sized loaf of bread and added a generous sample of brie. He handed it to Harry, telling him to try it, before helping himself.

Rubbing his fingertips together to brush off a few crumbs, Draco said, “She has the most annoying habit of speaking to me in English anytime she sees me, even when we’re amongst people who do not speak it. And she will do it in the loudest voice possible without actually yelling. Dreadfully rude.” He broke the bread and chose a sharp, hard cheese this time. “Try this one,” he said, passing it to Harry before helping himself again. “She says what a relief it is to take a break from speaking in a foreign language all the time. We are working and living in France. It is English that is the foreign language. You know, when you said ‘Beauxbatons’ a minute or two ago, you pronounced it correctly. She’s been teaching here a year and still calls it ‘boh-BAT-tons’.”

“I’ve just heard Fleur say it and picked it up from her, I reckon,” Harry said. 

Draco asked him which cheese he’d preferred, and based on his answer recommended one or two others for him to try.

“Do they have any crackers, do you think?” Harry asked as he cut himself a small slice of one of Draco’s recommendations.

Draco cringed. “That’s blasphemy. It is physically impossible to eat French cheese with _crackers_ ,” he replied stiffly. “The cheese will throw itself onto the floor sooner than allow itself to be consumed on a _cracker_.”

“Oh, er. Okay,” Harry responded sheepishly as he broke a piece off slice of baguette.

“But that’s just what she’s not done,” Draco said, returning to their conversation. “How many times do you think she’s heard the name said, and yet she’s still not picked it up? Her French may be grammatically perfect, but her pronunciation is rubbish.” Cutting a piece of Roquefort, Draco said on a different subject, “They do a fabulous _crème brûlée_ here. Also, _tarte Tatin_ , which is caramelised apples with puff pastry. It’s served warm with vanilla or _dulce de leche_ ice cream. Or there’s cream puffs with chocolate sauce or . . .”

.~*~. 

_I will meet you at your quarters at 12:30 – D._

Harry read the note that he’d just been handed. “ _Merci, Nicole,_ ” he said, remembering the girl from yesterday’s trip to the lake. 

“You are welcome, Meester Potter,” she responded in English with a pleased grin on her face. “You enjoyed ze lake, I think? Yes?”

“Oh, yes, er _oui_ ,” he said. Draco and he had not returned to the palace with the carriage the evening before. Rather, talking over coffee and pudding had turned into talking over dinner, and it had been nearly midnight before they’d Floo’d back to the palace.

Slipping Draco’s note into his robe pocket, Harry missed the way Nicole’s and Émilie’s eyes met as the former returned to the palace and the latter hovered in the air on her broom. 

Turning his attention skyward, Harry mounted his broom and re-joined Émilie where she’d been keeping watch on the class as they flew through an obstacle course similar to the one he’d had her fly, only child-friendly. This was Teddy’s class—the one Harry had been most looking forward to, although he made a point to not favour his godson. As much as he’d been waiting for it, he’d also worried how the rest of the British kids would react to him—would they look at him like some kind of superhero with star-struck eyes like their parents? He’d almost laughed out loud when he’d overheard a whispered, “Not very tall, is he?”

“All right, you lot!” he called out. “Let’s fly some sprints, yeah? See how fast you all are.”

.~*~. 

Harry stepped out of the Floo into a large room filled with warm, golden light. The lower half of the walls were wood panelled with rich dark oak, above which they were either covered with tapestries in shades of green, blue and gold or painted a soft, subtle shade of yellow. There were several inviting-looking tables around the room, atop all of which stood a small round vase filled with red roses. Across from where he stood, a large wizarding portrait of a young couple, whose hair styles and formal robes with wide lace trim dated them as sometime during the Victorian era, was displayed prominently in a gilt frame. In her hands, the woman held a single red rose. The pair whispered softly to each other as the man gazed down at the woman with a look of absolute devotion on his face, and it was equally clear the woman, discreetly looking down at the long-stemmed rose she held but glancing up at him frequently, returned his devotion.

The Leaky Cauldron, this was not. 

_Bonjour, Monsieur,_ said a witch in her early twenties working behind the counter.

Behind him, the Floo lit up again and he was joined a second later by Draco.

“ _Ah! Monsieur Malfoy! Bienvenue!_ ,” called the witch as she stepped out to great them.

Draco responded in French that had Harry’s mind venturing down paths he knew better than to let it venture down, but he found himself unable to stop it. It was ridiculous, but hearing Draco speak French was far more appealing than it had any right to be. Harry’d heard French spoken often enough before, and he’d never thought anything particular about it. 

Well, he hadn’t heard it often, but occasionally. And admittedly, there was rather a difference between the off-time he’d overheard it spoken by Fleur and her family when they visited and hearing it spoken by a good-looking man in Paris.

His thoughts surprising him, Harry turned his head away as if looking around the room, but from the corner of his eye, he watched Draco. Harry’d thought to himself that there was something attractive about Malfoy when he’d arrived on Monday, but it had been nothing but a passing thought, the same as he’d had about any number of men. It was now Thursday, and he had spent more time with Draco than he ever had before, and he found himself thinking once again that while the other man was certainly not his normal type, Harry definitely found him attractive—possibly a little more so than was wise. 

Draco introduced the young witch to Harry as a former student of his called Susanne Allemande.

“I am very pleased to meet you, _Monsieur_ ,” she said to him in English. “Welcome to the _Hotel de la Rose Rouge._

“Susanne’s younger brother, Mathieu, is one of the Beauxbatons students working at the Quidditch school. I don’t know if you remember—”

“Mathieu, yes of course. You were talking to him on Monday, just after we arrived. _Bonjour_ , Susanne,” Harry said.

“Our table is ready, but there is something I want to show you first,” Draco said before switching back to French and speaking to Susanne again.

Susanne said something to Draco before ending with “ _Bon appétit, Monsieur._ ” She turned to Harry and said, “Enjoy your meal” in English.

“Look over here,” Draco said. 

As Harry followed him, Draco explained that Susanne’s family had owned the hotel for generations, and that one of her ancestors had been both potioneer and a pioneer of early wizarding photography. 

“It was he who created the original potion to make wizarding photos move.” 

He led Harry into a small room with its buttery yellow walls displaying a collection of very old photos. “These,” Draco said, gesturing around the room, “are some of the oldest wizarding photographs known to exist.”

“Wow,” Harry responded. “Really?” He stepped closer to the wall and studied one of the thirty or so prints hanging at eye-level around the room. He moved from one to the next, examining each photo. Not limited only to Paris, the pictures showed a variety of scenes, including country life and landscapes. Harry watched waves crashing against the coast. “Biarritz, 1886” read a small plaque beside the photo. There were some of people bathing in the _Lac des Champs Elysées_ in very odd looking getups—nineteenth century wizarding bathing attire. Only their forearms were bare—their bathing robes having sleeves that came to their elbows. The next photo was of something Harry recognised—or rather half of something he recognised. “They’re building the Eiffel Tower,” he said. The next one was also of something else he recognised, but not at all how he remembered it. Several horse-drawn carriages were driven by men in top hats down a wide, tree-lined street. A bicyclist weaved his way through traffic, and women in long gowns and large hats and carrying parasols strolled along the pavement. The only thing that made the scene recognisable as the Avenue _des Champs-Elysees_ was the _Arc de Triomphe_ standing proudly at the far end of the street. “These are great,” Harry said.

After spending a good while looking at all the old photographs on display, Draco and Harry left the gallery for lunch. Harry began to return to the room they’d arrived in, but Draco directed him towards a lift. “There’s a rooftop, terrace restaurant,” he explained. 

Taking the lift up eight storeys, they exited through glass doors onto a terrace with a weathered, wood deck floor, cream-coloured painted brick pillars, tall black iron-work fencing and scores of potted shrubs and ornamental, flowering trees. And roses. Harry hadn’t known roses came in that many shades of red. 

Self-consciously, he ran a hand down his stomach. Knowing they’d be in Muggle Paris, he’d dressed Muggle: a light-weight cotton jumper with jeans and black trainers. He felt a bit underdressed.

“There is a right way to see the Eiffel Tower and a wrong way,” Draco said. “Hours of one queue after another is the wrong way. This,” he said, gesturing with his hand, “is the right way.”

Harry looked in the direction Draco indicated and felt his jaw drop. A second later, he heard Draco laugh.

“Shut it, you,” he said, teasingly. “This is, my God, Draco, this is—this is incredible.”

In front of them was a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower standing tall and majestic beyond the rooftops of Paris, all of it framed by red roses climbing up trellises mounted on and stretching between brick pillars.

“This is . . . Merlin, Draco . . . this is just . . .”

“And then, if you get bored of that view, you can always turn around,” Draco said.

Turning, Harry’s jaw almost dropped again. In one direction stood the Eiffel Tower and in the other, the _Arc de Triomphe_. 

“This is just . . .” At a loss for words, Harry’s voice trailed off. He looked from one monument to the other and back. 

“The menu is posted over here,” Draco said after giving him a minute to appreciate the stunning view. He motioned towards a large chalkboard mounted on an easel, which he translated for Harry.

“ _Messieurs,_ " said the _maître d’hôtel_ as he greeted them. “ _Ah, Monsieur Malfoy, comment allez-vous? C'est un plaisir de vous revoir._ ”

Draco spoke to the man in French, and Harry dropped his head, his earlier line of thought returning to him. He swallowed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. If Draco kept speaking in French around him, Harry thought he might just end up with a bit of a crush—and how ironic would that be, given their history? It was just as well he’d be returning to England soon.

“ _. . . anglais_ ,” Harry heard Draco say.

“Ah, yes. Welcome,” the _maître d’hôtel_ said to him. “You are in France working at _Monsieur_ Malfoy’s school.?” 

“The Quidditch school, yes,” answered Harry.

“Our Mathieu eez zere as well, at zee school. A . . . ‘ow you say?” he asked, turning towards Draco.

“Mathieu is a Beater.” To Harry, Draco explained, “ _Monsieur_ Vennard is Mathieu and Susanne’s uncle.”

“Ah, yes.” The man acted out swinging a bat at a Bludger—an odd sight, given that he was dressed in formal black robes. “Now, me, I was a . . . a . . .” He looked to Draco for help.

“A Seeker.”

“Ah, yes. A Seeker,” the _maître d’hôtel_ said, clapping his hands together. “Like _Monsieur_ ”, he added, acknowledging Draco. “But, of course, zees was many years ago,” he added as he patted his greying hair.

“Harry was a Seeker, too, _Monsieur_ Vennard,” Draco said. Explaining he’d played for the Chudley Cannons and giving a short history of his regrettably brief career. 

The _maître d’hôtel_ tutted and tsk’ed disapprovingly at how Harry’s career had ended. 

“And zis eez your first time lunching wizz us. I do ‘ope you will enjoy your visit, _Monsieur._ ‘ave you any questions about ze menu? No? Zen, if you are ready, I have a very good table ready for you, just zis way. If you will please follow me?”

Harry and Draco were led to one of several redwood, patio-style tables with green tablecloths and blue and white striped cushions on the chairs. Between the wood decking and the painted brick pillars, the roses and trellises, the shrubbery and flowering trees and the redwood tables, the effect was one of casual, comfortable elegance. And then there was the view . . . As Draco sat down, Harry glanced at him. The view in that direction was quite nice, too.

An intelligent, funny, attractive man, whose voice speaking French was far more alluring than should be possible, a setting that couldn’t be more beautiful . . . Harry felt the thrill of first real attraction sweep through him. How could he not? A man would have to be dead not to—that or straight, he reckoned. The thought occurred to him that he ought to have been more careful than to allow himself to take notice of Draco in that way. They’d been out together now three times since he’d arrived in France five days ago. He ought to have been more careful. He ought not to have— 

No. Why, Harry asked himself? Why shouldn’t he spend time with an intelligent, attractive man whose company and sense of humour he enjoyed and whose voice speaking French . . . well, whose voice speaking French sounded as delicious as chocolate tasted? He was in _France_ —in _Paris_ , one of the most romantic cities in the world for Merlin’s sake. He was at a beautiful roof-top restaurant that offered an incredible view with a man he found attractive both physically and in his personality. And he was thinking he ought not to have let this happen? Why? Why shouldn’t he let himself fall for Draco just a little? It wasn’t as if anything could come of it—he was leaving in just a few days. 

So, why shouldn’t he take advantage of those couple of days and just enjoy himself?

Yes, Harry decided that was exactly what he would do. He felt giddy with excitement. A little harmless flirting . . . he couldn’t wait to see Draco’s reaction.

“I really want to thank you, Draco,” Harry said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and smiling. “I feel as if I’ve been monopolising your time.” It had been a while since he’d openly flirted with a man, and he felt a bit rusty, but Harry let a little something suggestive slip into his voice. “I’m sure you have far better things to do than play tour guide to me.”

His smile widened when Draco’s lips parted and he blinked three times. He was going to enjoy this, Harry told himself.

“I, er, no,” Draco said. He shifted in his chair and looked around. “Our waitress is coming,” he said with a small note of relief in his voice.

“ _Monsieur_ Malfoy,” said a pretty ginger-haired witch who, apart from her hair, bore a notable resemblance to the _maître d’hôtel_. “Papa said you were here. Eet ees very good to see you,” she said to him in English. She must’ve been told that Harry spoke no French.

“Martine,” said Draco. “How have you been? How are your studies coming?” he asked.

“Very well, _Monsieur._ Thank you.” 

“Martine left Beauxbatons a year ago,” Draco explained to Harry. “She’s studying to become a Healer.”

Harry made appropriate congratulations and inquiries. “Did you play Quidditch at Beauxbatons, too?” he asked. 

“ _Non, Monsieur_. Not I. I like to fly fast, but being ‘it by the Bludgers? Zat I do not like.”

“I implemented racing teams a few years ago,” Draco said. 

“Racing teams?” Harry asked. “That’s a great idea.” It really was. As much as he loved Quidditch, why shouldn’t there be another option for kids who liked to fly and wanted to compete but didn’t make their house Quidditch team, or who, like Martine, just preferred something else?

“The students started it themselves, really. I just take the credit. A small group of students had started some simple races on their own and as more students wanted to join in, they approached me about forming formal teams. Martine was one of the fastest racers—flew both short and long distance and on the relay team. Her house won the first Racing Cup with Martine flying anchor in the relay.”

“Is that so?” Harry asked.

Harry watched as Draco and his former student talked easily for a few minutes. He took a genuine interest in their lives, not just their flying skills, which spoke well of his character, Harry thought. After their orders had been placed and Martine had gone, he said, “You’ve really got a good rapport with your students. Émilie can’t say enough good things about you.”

“You’ve made quite an impression on them yourself. I’ve had more than one comment about you. Even with the translation charms, you make an effort to speak in French to them.”

Embarrassed at how very little French he knew in comparison to the students’ knowledge of English—what was a simple _oui_ and _non_ compared to complete sentences?—Harry replied he only knew a few basic words and expressions. 

“That doesn’t matter. It’s that you bother to use the few basic words you know that they like.”

“When did you learn to speak French?” Harry asked.

“I had tutors from the time I was five.” There was a moment’s hesitation, as if Draco was unsure of whether to say something. “The Malfoy family originated in France,” he eventually said, his uncertainty audible in his voice. “The wards at the manor are all old French familial spells.”

A moment of silence followed before Harry asked where in France Draco lived. He wasn’t sure whether the question was too personal, but Draco had opened the door on more personal topics of conversation, and, Harry reckoned, he could always just give a generic answer—the coast or the countryside or some such thing—if he chose.

“We have a small estate in _la Côte d'Azur_ —the Riviera, that is. Mother lives in the main house, and I live in a small villa on the grounds, when I’m not in residence at Beauxbatons. Sort of a dowager house. Lovely view of the Mediterranean.”

Harry doubted his idea of a small villa was the same as Draco’s, but regardless, a house of any size with a view of the Mediterranean . . . 

“How about you? You’re not at the old Black house in London, are you?”

“Grimmauld Place? Merlin, no. I’ve a cottage in the West Country.” Harry explained the condition it had been in and all the work he’d put into it. “With all the land it came with, I wanted it the minute I saw it, in spite of the house’s being ready to fall down. Perfect for flying, it is. I’d’ve ripped the old house down and built new if I’d had to.”

Draco sat back and folded his arms in front of himself. He leant his head slightly to one side and asked, “I’ve got to ask, how is it that there’s no Mrs Potter waiting in that cottage?”

Harry crinkled his forehead. “I, er, rather thought I’d established I’m not interested in a Mrs Potter.”

“One never knows. I’m left-handed, but I do occasionally use my right for certain things.”

Harry laughed. “Do you?” he asked suggestively. “I find I prefer the same hand.”

Draco nearly choked before rallying. “No Mr Potter-Jones-Somebody, then. Or do you prefer your do-it-yourself skills in areas not limited to home improvement?”

Martine brought their wine and salads, necessitating an abrupt change of subject. Draco commented on the luck they’d had with the weather so far at the same time Harry remarked on the number of their fellow diners. 

When she’d gone, Draco pointed out that Harry hadn’t answered his question—how was it that the most eligible bachelor in the British Isles didn’t have someone anxiously awaiting his return?

“I’ve not been in any rush,” Harry responded. Looking directly into Draco’s eyes, he added, “When I find the right man, I’ll know it.”

Draco swallowed and looked away. 

“When that news broke, there must’ve been hell to pay,” he said sympathetically. “Telling my mother she’d not be having a daughter-in-law was hard enough. Or is it still under wraps?”

“Oh, no. That story broke ages ago.” Seeing the headline of _Daily Prophet_ informing every witch and wizard in Great Britain that he was gay above a picture of him entwined with a man he’d picked up had not been a pleasant experience. “I was photographed leaving a gay nightclub in Muggle London, and, well, I wasn’t alone and we weren’t discussing the weather.” 

Draco winced.

Harry speared a slice of asparagus on his fork and did what he normally did: he adopted a ‘sticks and stones’ attitude. “Let them say what they will. Merlin knows they’ve said far worse—least this one was true.” He didn’t think Draco bought it any more than his family and friends back home, but like them, he didn’t press the issue. “Everyone who mattered already knew. The rest, how do you say ‘they can go to hell’ in French?” he asked.

" _Ils peuvent aller se faire voir._ " 

Harry raised his glass to offer a toast and repeated Draco’s words as best he could. 

Draco raised his glass as well, and confirmed the sentiment.

.~*~.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where to next?” Harry asked after they’d finished lunch. “I’m all yours,” he added in the same suggestive tone he’d used more than once that afternoon. 

Draco didn’t know what he was playing at. At first, he’d thought Potter was taking the piss, but that didn’t fit in with the image of Potter he’d got over the past few days. Whatever he was up to, Draco did know one thing—he could keep up.

Slowly, he let his eyes roam over the other man from head to foot and back. There was one thing to be said for Muggle clothing—they left little to the imagination. And Potter certainly wore them well. When dressing in Muggle clothing, Draco’s personal taste ran more towards fine, wool trousers and pressed button-downs, but the way Potter’s simple slate blue jumper stretched across his chest and shoulders, showing off just how toned the body beneath was. . . And his jeans—Draco approved whole-heartedly of the way Potter looked in those jeans. There were far worse ways to spend a summer day than in the company of an attractive man, he decided.

Draco breathed deeply. “So many possibilities and so little time. What to do with you first?” he asked.

Potter smirked.

 _Oh, yes_ , Draco thought to himself. The game was on.

.~*~. 

“So,” Draco said as they took the lift back down to the lobby, “That’s the Eiffel Tower and the _Arc de Triomphe_. I take it there was nothing in particular you wanted to see at the Louvre, apart from the Mona Lisa.”

“I don’t know the first thing about what’s there, to be honest. Really, I went there because I’d heard of it,” Harry replied. “I have to admit, I know it’s world famous, and it was impressive and grand and all that, but it was also a bit intimidating. Between the sheer size of the place and crowds . . . It was a little off-putting.”

Draco had a comment about being intimidated by size at the tip of his tongue, but given the sincerity Potter’d spoken with, he bit it back. “Paris draws tens of millions visitors every year, and every one of them has the Louvre at the top of their must-see list.” Tactfully, he added, “If one is not fond of crowds, famous as it is, it may be as well to leave it off one’s own list. The Louvre and the _Musée d’Orsay_ are not Paris’ only museums.”

“I don’t particularly dislike crowds, but I don’t particularly like them either,” Harry responded. “At a Quidditch match—yeah, fine. But—I don’t claim to be a connoisseur of fine art, or anything like that—but how can you can you appreciate a painting, or a sculpture or whatever, in the middle of a horde of people elbowing you in the side of the head and shoving cameras and mobile phones in front of your face?”

Draco laughed. “Did that actually happen?”

“Don’t laugh,” Harry retorted, rubbing the side of his head, as they reached the ground floor. “It bloody hurt. Got me right on my ear.” He motioned in the direction of the gallery Draco’d shown him with the old wizarding photographs. “Honestly, I liked the old photos you showed me better.”

“Because they were magical?”

“No. I don’t think that had anything to do with it. It’s just . . . I don’t know. They were more, maybe relatable? Paintings and sculptures are beautiful but they just . . . the photographs felt more natural. More real. People don’t stand around or lay around in the poses artists paint them in. Photographs are of people doing things people actually do.”

“That doesn’t necessarily hold true; a photograph can be as posed as a painting. But I do understand what you mean. A photograph can capture a moment as quickly as it happens, whereas a painting doesn’t just happen. It’s got to be deliberately planned.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Most of the metro stations in Paris have Floo terminals or Apparition points. If you’d like, there’s an excellent collection of photographs at the _Musée Carnavalet_. We passed it the other day, but it wasn’t open then. It’s closed on Mondays. It’s near _la Place des Vosges_. I don’t know if you noticed it. It doesn’t look like much from the street, apart from its large wrought iron and gilt entry gate.” 

The _Musée Carnavalet_ was one of François’ favourite places, and he’d dragged Draco from room to room showing him this and that so many times, Draco’d lost count. A historian, the museum was almost a second home to François. It was also somewhere there was no chance of his wife’s popping up. There was something about the idea of taking Harry there that felt almost cleansing.

“I think I remember it. Big coat of arms over the gate?”

“That’s it. It’s a history museum, really, but they’ve an extensive art collection as well.”

“Lead on.”

.~*~. 

Stepping out of the Floo at the _la Place des Vosges_ , Draco led Harry down the same street they’d walked before. It surprised him again how comfortable he’d come to feel with his company in such a short time—they’d actually flirted, for Flamel’s sake.

“It covers the whole history of Paris,” Draco said. “Their collection is extensive—it’s got about a hundred rooms, about a dozen on the French Revolution alone—but it’s the photographs we’re interested in. Unless you want to see a shoe worn during the celebration of the _Fête de la Fédération_ in 1790?”

“They’ve really got that?”

“Among other things.”

“Another time.”

.~*~. 

“It’s titled _View from the Window at le Gras_.”

“And that’s really the first photograph ever taken?” Harry asked, impressed.

Draco translated the information given describing the exhibit. “It says it’s a manually enhanced print of the first permanent photographic image taken by Nicéphore Niépce in either 1826 or 1827. The photograph shows the view from an upstairs window at his estate in the Burgundy region of France and was created on a chemically coated pewter plate after an estimated eight-hour exposure time. The original plate is still in existence today, and though very faded, the image is still discernible.” 

Draco read on silently before turning his attention back to the very grainy black and white image. “See here, and here? It shows sunlight hitting the buildings on opposite sides. That’s what leads researches to conclude the exposure time had to have been at least eight hours.”

Moving on to another photograph, Draco translated, “The Boulevard du Temple, Paris, 1838 or 1839. First known photograph of a person.”

Both Harry and Draco studied the photo. The tilted their heads from one side to the next. They moved closer, then stepped back farther. They squinted and stared.

“Are you sure you read that right?” Harry asked. “There are no people in this photo.”

“That’s what it says.” Draco read on. “This image, believed to be the first known photograph featuring a person, was taken in either 1838 or 1839 by French photographer Louis Daguerre, inventor of the daguerreotype method of photography. The scene shows the Boulevard du Temple in Paris, a bustling, then-fashionable area of shops, cafés, and theatres. At first glance, the street appears to be deserted until, upon closer inspection, a man can be seen having his boots cleaned in the lower, left-hand corner.”

Both Harry and Draco’s attention was shifted to the spot mentioned.

“Oh,” they both said almost at the same moment. “There he is,” one observed, pointing. “You can see the boot-cleaner, too,” the other said at the same time. Also pointing, he brushed his hand against the other’s. 

“Er,” Draco said, lowering his arm, “It says that because a several minute long exposure was needed to create a photograph at the time, only stationary objects registered, leaving the busy street and pavement seemingly empty of carriages and pedestrians, apart from the man and the boot-cleaner, who remained still long enough to appear in the photo.”

"It's kind of eerie," Harry observed. "The pavements and road were crowded with people, who simply didn't appear in the photo."

Draco rather agreed, and they moved on through the exhibit.

Another photo hanging nearby showed the façade of the Notre Dame Cathedral in faded, sepia tones. Heavy garlands hung in cascading swags over the doors, in the centre of which, the letters N and E were visible. While most of the photograph was in focus, the bottommost portion was badly blurred.

Draco read, “This photograph of the Cathedral of Notre Dame was taken on 30 January 1853, upon the marriage of Napoleon III and Eugénie de Montijo. Due to the length of the exposure time needed to create the image, the long procession into the church is a complete blur.”

They moved down along the display.

“MONUMENT de l’INDÉPENDANCE” read the plaque above the photograph of a large sculpture of a woman’s head. She wore a crown of seven pointed spires, and with her eyebrows drawn together and the set of her mouth, her expression conveyed strength and determination. She looked like a Roman goddess.

“The head of the Statue of Liberty displayed at the 1878 Paris World’s Fair. A collaboration between Auguste Bartholdi and Gustave Eiffel, the Statue of Liberty was a gift from France to the United States to mark the centennial of the American Declaration of Independence. Standing over 305 feet and transported in 350 pieces, its design and construction are considered masterpieces of nineteenth century engineering.”

“Eiffel?” Harry asked.

As if in answer to his question, a collage of photos very reminiscent of one they’d seen at the _Hotel de la Rose Rouge_ hung nearby, documenting the construction of the Eiffel Tower. 

“The Eiffel Tower, named for Gustave Eiffel, whose company designed and built the tower, was constructed as the main exhibit of the Paris Exposition in 1889. Not originally intended to be a permanent structure, the tower was to stand for twenty years before being dismantled. Now one of the most instantly recognisable monuments in the world, the tower was saved from demolition by its unanticipated usefulness as a wireless telegraph transmitter, and was used by the French military during World War One to communicate with French and Allied ships in the Atlantic Ocean and to intercept enemy communications. Today, the tower is home to over 120 antennas, broadcasting television and radio signals.”

A collection of photographs of flooded Parisian streets beneath a plaque that read, “ _Crue de la Seine de 1910_ ” needed no description. Silently, Harry and Draco studied the photos. People being rescued through windows, climbing down ladders into awaiting boats. Stairs leading down into flooded metro stations, only the first few steps visible above the water. One photo showed a long street lined with tall buildings, a hundred or more books floating in the floodwaters. 

They moved on to another photo of the Eiffel Tower, this one titled, " _Garde à la station radio de la Tour Eiffel._ " The tower appeared a pale backdrop to the dark silhouette of a World War One soldier standing guard, his rifle at his side. Beside it was a photograph of Parisians in early twentieth century Muggle clothing with their faces turned up to the sky. In the crowd, one man held a small boy in his arms, a woman pointed upwards with her closed parasol, another woman held her hand to her face, her mouth forming an O in wonder and fear. 

“Parisians watch German aircraft overhead during World War One,” Draco read quietly.

A third photo showed flag bearing soldiers marching in front of the _Arc de Triomphe_. 

“Great Victory Parade, 14 July 1919.” 

Displays of photographs continued to document the passing of the twentieth century in Paris. One photo dated 1929 was a shot taken from within the Eiffel Tower looking down, displaying both the lace-like ironwork of the structure and the shadow it cast on the ground below. An undated photo showed a man and a woman riding in an open motorcar, the legs of the Eiffel Tower visible again in the distance. 

Then came more photographs showing a city during wartime. The omnipresent Eiffel Tower was captured in another but very different photograph, this one taken from beneath the tower, its legs framing military aircraft. A city invaded; Nazi soldiers on horseback making their way down the _Champs Elysées_ , the _Arc de Triomphe_ behind them. More photos showed a besieged city as it fought back. In a low voice, Draco translated descriptions: a Free French soldier racing to aid a resistance fighter taking cover as he fired at one sniper, parents shielding their children behind a jeep as resistance fighters and Free French troops tried to take out another. But then a photograph of a jubilant crowd applauding, a woman in the centre of the photo with her arms thrown up in the air, her face lifted skyward. Another parade on the _Champs Elysées_ —citizens, this time, waving flags of the Allied nations after the liberation of Paris.

Speaking only in hushed whispers, Harry and Draco proceeded through the rest of the photographs on display. Draco had been wanting to see these photographs for some time, but with as many times as François and he had come to this museum, he never had. His former lover’s area of expertise had been the late Middle Ages through the Revolution. The nineteenth and twentieth centuries had not interested him very much. Once or twice, Draco had been going to come see the display by himself, but it had never happened. Now having seen it, he was glad he’d experienced it with someone else. He cast a glance at Harry. The photos had made as much of an impression on him as they had on Draco.

Making their way out of the museum, they passed through the formal garden they’d entered through almost two hours earlier. The cool grey of the gravel surrounding the plantings contrasted the two rows of deep green of the shrubs that formed the boarder of the garden. Between the rows of border shrubs, purple and white summer flowers bloomed. The last time Draco had been here with François, the flowers that had been in bloom had been red tulips and lily of the valley. 

Draco thought about the photos of occupied Paris resisting their enemy’s domination, and from there his mind unavoidably drifted to his seventh year at Hogwarts. 

“That was a great collection,” Harry remarked. “I’m really glad we went.”

Draco agreed, though distractedly.

“Thanks for . . . Draco?” 

_“Another time,” _Harry’d said earlier, when Draco’d mentioned seeing the exhibits from the French Revolution. But there wouldn’t be another time. By this time tomorrow, Potter could be on his way back to England, or perhaps already home. Draco’d not heard anything from Krum. As far as he knew, Krum would be arriving on Sunday as his wife had said. Harry was under no obligation to stay at Beauxbatons beyond his last class tomorrow morning.__

__“You must be looking forward to getting home,” Draco observed. “I know I’ve said this before, but your agreeing to stay on such short notice was a tremendous help. I really am most grateful.”_ _

__Harry’s easy smile faded. The very green of his eyes seemed to dim. He looked away and might’ve been speaking to the ivy climbing the side of the building rather than Draco when he mumbled something about it’s being for the kids._ _

__“Have you heard from Viktor?” Harry asked._ _

__Draco said he’d not._ _

__“I, er, I was disappointed to see how few British kids there were,” Harry said as they passed through the iron gates. “I was rather expecting a lot more.”_ _

__“Were you? I wasn’t.” Standing on the pavement outside the museum entrance and looking down at his shoes, Draco said, “There were better than twice the number who came originally registered. Within two days of the information packets going out with my name on them, cancellations began to arrive.” One corner of his lips lifting into a smirk, he continued, “I expect once they learnt _you_ were on staff, they wished they’d not pulled their children out.”_ _

__Harry grinned. Waiting until a group of Asian tourists passed by, he said, “Yeah, the same thought’s crossed my mind once or twice. I expect there’ll be owls circling my property for weeks.”_ _

__“Sorry about that,” Draco said, although his tone conveyed he wasn’t sorry in the least. In a very different tone, he added, “When you arrived and asked if there was another carriage of students from Britain, I thought you were taking the piss.”_ _

__Surprised, Harry denied anything of the sort._ _

__“I know that now,” Draco assured him. Changing the subject, he said, “So, that’s a museum. Although, admittedly, only one collection, but there is only so much time in one day, and I expect you’ll want to do a little shopping. Gifts to take home? Or are the macarons you bought all you intended—”_ _

__Harry’s eyes widened. “Merlin, I almost forgot! Rose—if I go home without a gift for Rose, I’ll lose my favourite godfather title.”_ _

__“Rose is . . . ?”_ _

__“Ron and Hermione’s daughter. She’s three,” Harry answered._ _

__“So, Weasley and Granger,” Draco commented, striving for a casual tone at the mention of the other two thirds of the Golden Trio. The ear piercing screams he heard in his nightmares echoed inside his head, and he focused on his breathing._ _

__“Weasley and Weasley,” Harry corrected. “They’ll be married ten years this Christmas.”_ _

__“Will they, indeed? Well, good for them,” Draco said, surprised at just how much he meant the words. “They’ve only the one?” Honestly, he’d have expected a Weasley to have reproduced far more prolifically in ten years. However, Granger was an only child, of course. Perhaps the small family size was her preference._ _

__“They’ve a new baby, too. Hugo.”_ _

“I’ve not had any occasion to shop for children.” François’ children had been the reason he’d used to keep Draco away from his home for so long. “ _Je ne veux pas qu'ils s'attachent à quelqu'un, tu comprends,_ ” he’d said how many times? Draco felt like a fool for buying the excuse for so long, but he’d already spent far more of his time brooding over François than the man deserved. Motioning down the street with his hand, Draco said, “This is actually one of the best streets for shopping in Muggle Paris, in my opinion. There’s a variety of small boutiques. Clothing, perfume, jewellery, items for the home—some well-known Muggle names, some not. The less well-known are less expensive, of course, but still good quality. However, for your goddaughter, there’s a particular toy shop in another _arrondissement_ I’ve seen a number of times I’ve always wanted an excuse to go into. It's in a nineteenth century enclosed shopping arcade. _Un passage couvert._ A covered passage.”

Slowly walking along the _Rue des Francs Bourgeois_ , they looked at the displays in shop windows, commenting here and there, and Harry admitted in a somewhat sheepish tone that he could use some new things. They passed one or two menswear shops, where the clothes displayed in the window were rather trendier than Harry’s taste ran, and stopped in a third. Draco explained to the man who greeted them that his friend—he called Harry _his friend_ —was looking for some new things but didn’t speak French. The man turned his attention to Harry then, and speaking in quite good English, led him through the shop. Draco was rather surprised at the clothing Harry looked at. More jeans, yes—but given the way he looked in the pair he had on, Draco had no complaints at this—but the shirts he was choosing were shirts Draco might’ve selected for himself. Good quality fabrics, well cut and well made. Draco pulled the inside of his upper lip between his teeth—fuck, but Potter’d look good in the clothes he was picking. He regretted he’d not get to see just how good. When the salesman led Harry to the fitting room, Draco rubbed the back of his neck. He was extremely conscious that in a minutes’ time, Harry would be pushing those jeans down his legs. 

__Doing a little browsing himself to try to distract his mind from forming pictures of Potter stepping out of his jeans and pulling his jumper over his head, Draco was surprised when Potter called his name far sooner than he’d have expected him to finish. Turning around, Draco’s surprise doubled. Harry stood by the fitting room door in a different pair of jeans and a crisp white button down shirt that fit him so well, it could’ve been tailor made for him, and he wanted his—Draco’s—opinion._ _

__Draco moved closer to him, and, fidgeting, Harry asked, “Well? Does it look okay?” His voice and body language showed hesitation and uncertainty, like he was seeking approval he did not expect to get._ _

__“Passable,” Draco responded with deliberate and obviously feigned nonchalance._ _

__“Only passable?”_ _

__Stepping closer to him, Draco elaborated in a low, calculated voice, “Like I could push you back in that room, lock the door and break several public decency laws.”_ _

__Not batting an eyelash, Harry said, “I’ll take it, then.”_ _

.~*~. 

__Harry awoke with a deep moan still in his throat and a sigh on his lips. His eyes blinking open, he stretched his arms behind his head and arched his back, then collapsed back down into his bed and grinned. Draco Malfoy had appeared in his dreams before, but never like that._ _

__Pity it’d only been a dream._ _

__Rolling over, he reached for his wand on the small table beside his bed and cast a quick cleaning charm on himself and his sheets. He’d shower in a moment, but the first few minutes after he woke in the mornings and could just linger in bed before having to face the world were Harry’s favourite part of the day, and after his dream, he rather wanted to indulge a bit._ _

__Damn, but it was a pity it’d only been a dream._ _

Harry stared at the canopy over his bed. As he lay there, Harry thought about the times he and Draco had spent in each other’s company that past week, and he had to admit, he was sorry the week was over. The best dates he’d had in ages, and they weren’t dates at all. Regardless, date or not, lunch at on rooftop terrace with views of both the Eiffel Tower and the _Arc de Triomphe_ followed by a museum and strolling and shopping in the nineteenth century _passages couverts_ Draco had taken him to would be damned hard to beat. 

__One by one the minutes ticked by as Harry’s thoughts roamed from one place visited with Draco to another, his lie-in becoming significantly dimmed by the unavoidable truth that his time in France was up. Viktor would be arriving on Sunday, and Harry would no longer be needed. He hadn’t thought to ask Draco when he would be expected to clear out. Harry figured he’d probably been given the room that had originally been intended for Viktor. Would he be expected to leave that afternoon, Harry wondered? Or not until morning? His only role at the school was as a coach, and after that morning’s practices, that role would be over. He should’ve thought to ask Draco yesterday. Was he expected to arrange his own way home, or was that taken care of for him? He’d have to seek Draco out at breakfast and ask him. With a very different sort of sigh, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed._ _

__Crossing the room to the bathroom, a wicked grin crossed Harry’s face. There was another question he had for Draco._ _

____

.~*~.

In the suite of rooms Draco called home during the school months, he sorted through the reports he’d got over the past few days from the retired-pros-turned-coaches. He’d had to wake up early that morning to catch up on the work he’d been neglecting, spending so much time with Potter. Draco despised waking up early. His eyes raised from the parchment in his hands, and he smiled. There were few things that justified an early morning filled with parchments covered in scarcely legible penmanship, but he put the time he’d spent with Harry this week in the column with those few things.

His eyes lowered. It was Friday. Potter would be returning to England, probably that very day, and it was unlikely they’d ever see each other again. It did not escape Draco’s notice that after two years with François, knowing he’d never see the other man again didn’t stir a single regret. 

Resolved to focus on his work, Draco turned his attention back to the task at hand: the new groups the students would practice in starting on Monday. Prior to the start of the school, he’d made preliminary groups based on the position parents had filled in on the enrolment forms, but as he’d expected, there’d been a few students who’d come to camp wanting to focus on one particular position but, after having practiced all of them for the past four days, had changed their minds. He saw it every year with his First Years. It had as much to do with trying something different as being away from their parents telling them which position they liked best. On their own for the first time, the kids could answer for themselves. There were also recommendations from the retired players who’d been coaching the kids as to which position a child might show a particular talent for and comments on skill levels to consider. 

Draco had spent possibly twenty minutes on organising the children as best he could before the final day of general practices when a house-elf popped into his office with a note for him. From one of the retired players, the creature informed him before vanishing.

If this was from Mallard or Lafarge with another perceived slight, Draco swore he would—

 _Does it still count as breaking public decency laws if the dressing room door is closed?_ the note read.

.~*~.

“Good morning, Meester Potter,” greeted Émilie as they met each other on their way out of the dining hall.

“ _Bonjour,_ ” Harry responded. “You’ve not seen Draco— _Monsieur_ Malfoy—this morning, have you?” he asked.

Émilie’s eyes sparkled mischievously. Harry watched her from the corner of his eye. Teddy might only be ten—still a few years away from being a teenager—but Harry already knew to be leery of a look like that. “I ‘ave not. You are looking for ‘im, yes?” she asked in English.

“Stupid really, but I’m just realising I’ve no idea about making arrangements for returning to England. The week’s gone by so fast, I didn’t really think about it till this morning.”

Émilie stopped and gaped at him. “But, you are not leaving today?”

“Well, er, yeah. Viktor’ll be here on Sunday.”

“But, who wants Viktor Krum?” she asked.

Harry laughed. “Just about everyone.”

“No, I don’t think so. The students, they do not care about Viktor Krum. He is their parent’s hero. You have been here all week, working with them and helping them. It is you the students know. It is you they want.”

Harry didn’t know about that, but it was nice to hear, and he thanked her for saying it.

“And you have enjoyed your time here with us at Beauxbatons, have you not?”

“Very much so.” So much so, he’d forgot to find out how he was going to get back home. 

“Ah, I almost forgot,” Émilie said. “If you must leave us today, I have something for you to remember us.” She pulled a photograph from her robe pocket. “My Uncle Pierre is a photographer in Paris. He takes holiday-makers around the city on tours and teaches them about photography. Sometimes, when he does not have customers, he takes me out to the places he does his tours and teaches me. I like taking photos. I took this of you and _Monsieur_ Malfoy at the _Lac des Champs Elysées_.” 

Harry took the photo she held out to him.

“It is good, no?”

The photo was of Draco and him sitting at the hotel’s terrace restaurant. Rather than showing the hotel behind them, it showed the lake and the meadow in the distance. It hadn’t been taken from the spot near the lake where the group of chaperones and students had settled themselves, but from on the terrace. She must’ve taken it before she’d come up to tell them the carriage was preparing to board. It was a wizarding photo, and the image captured formed a four or five second loop which began with both Draco and him looking at something else, but then they both suddenly looked at each other and smiled.

Harry watched the loop repeat itself over and over.

“I have photos of Teddy from the lake, and at other times as well, for him to remember his time here at Beauxbatons. I have been taking photos of everyone here at the school for them to take home with them. I thought they would like it. And for us as well. I thought I would make a photo album for _Monsieur_ Malfoy. The photo, it is good, no?” she asked again when Harry didn’t comment.

With a shock as if cold water were dumped down his back, Harry came back to the present. He couldn’t remember the exact moment shown in the photo. Looking back to that evening, there were too many moments like the one in the photograph to know precisely when it had been taken. In the photo, he saw two men in an idyllic setting looking at each other and smiling, and he saw what he hadn’t seen before: he saw how their smiles had looked to the world around them.

“The light, it was very good, you see? The hour before the sun sets is a very good time to take photos. The light, it is very soft,” Émilie said, nervousness creeping into her voice.

“It’s great,” Harry said, forcing himself to sound normal. The truth was, the photo had unsettled him. Never would he have thought he and Malfoy could look like that together—like they were _together_ together. “The light’s great.”

Émilie beamed. “I am glad you like it. Have you taken many photos of Paris on your visits with _Monsieur_ Malfoy?” she asked. 

“Er, only a couple.” Harry told her about the pictures he’d taken—one of the Eiffel Tower and one of the _Arc de Triomphe_ , and of the few he’d got over the mountains Sunday night. He felt rather stupid now. How could he not have taken any photos over the past few days? He thought of the lake and the view they’d had at lunch yesterday with regret. Too late now, though.

The kids for his first practice session of his last morning were being led towards him, and Harry found himself wishing he wasn’t leaving that day. 

“You should stay another day. Or two, perhaps. My Uncle Pierre speaks English very well, he can take you around Paris. You and _Monsieur_ Malfoy. You cannot leave France with only two photos of Paris. Uncle Pierre can help you take magnificent photos. My family’s home is on the Floo network. I can ask my mother to see whether he is available.”

 _Why not?_ Harry found himself wondering. What did he have waiting for him in England that wouldn’t still be there in a couple of days? He could book a room at the _Hotel de la Rose Rouge_. He imagined having breakfast overlooking the view from the hotel’s roof. And if there were tours for photography, there were probably loads of different sorts of tours. He wouldn’t have to find his way around on his own.

Or, maybe he and Draco could just wander the streets and eat out on the pavement somewhere. It was the weekend, surely Draco would have some free time? 

But would he want to spend what free time he got with Harry?

“Do you think your uncle would have any time open this weekend?”

.~*~.

“ _Non, Monsieur! Il n'est pas question que je reste ici une minute de plus en sa présence. C'est elle ou moi_!” shouted Mathilde Mallard. The infamous rivalry between her former teammate and she had reached the boiling point. Draco had no idea what had set her off this morning, nor did he particularly care. He’d lost patience with the both of them. Mallard was threatening to leave if Lafarge stayed, and Draco fully expected to be confronted by an irate Madame Lafarge vowing the same at any moment.

Either that, or she was off somewhere on the grounds congratulating herself. Come to think of it, Draco felt that option was the far more likely.

He rubbed his temples. A headache was forming behind his eyes. Thoroughly fed up with both Chasers, he calmly said, “ _Très bien, Madame Mallard. Si vous ne pensez pas pouvoir rester une semaine de plus, je respecte votre choix. Je trouverai quelqu'un pour vous remplacer, et il ou elle finira la dernière semaine avec Madame Lafarge._ ” Draco turned away from the stiff figure storming furiously across his office, and opened the bottom drawer on his desk. His face blocked from her line of sight as he leant down rummaging through the drawer, Draco allowed himself a brief smile before resuming an appropriately regretful expression. Threaten him, would she? 

Pity, really, that Potter’d never had a secret career as a Beater, Draco told himself. He could kill two birds with one stone—get rid of Mallard and keep Harry.

Shaken at the random thought, Draco sucked in a breath sharply. Rubbing his eyes, he called himself every kind of stupid. He couldn’t believe he’d just thought that. 

Returning to the present problem, Draco’s mind again turned to Potter, though in a more practical manner. A personal request from him might very well get someone out here to replace Mallard for the second week of the school, should she make good on her threat. 

All the while Draco had been thinking to himself, Mallard had been spluttering indignantly at his unexpected agreement. She’d clearly not expected him to agree with her that if she felt she could not support returning on Monday, then, by all means, she should not. The added suggestion that he could replace her easily had also hit its target.

“ _Je suis sûr que les enfants et leurs parents comprendront. On ne peut malheureusement pas vous demander l'impossible_ ,” he added to further his agreement, but also to give her a way to take back her threat without losing face. As out of his hands as it had been, he’d already lost Krum for a week—though that had seemed to matter far more to the parents than it had to the students—and easier though it would make the second week of the school on him, he didn’t want to lose a second high profile player. The two Chasers really were adored by their fans throughout France. 

Of course, that was only because the fans throughout France didn’t have to work with them.

Madame Mallard’s posture changed. Her tantrum and histrionics over, she studied him shrewdly, as if looking for the best way to turn the situation around to present herself in the best possible light. Apparently having come to a decision, she raised her head proudly and looked down at him with heavily-lidded eyes, and after a length of time—during which Draco was sure she was choosing her words carefully—she condescended to return the following week, “. . . _dans l'intérêt des enfants _” and swept from his office with a dramatic flurry of robes.__

__Draco rubbed a hand over his face. He had enough gold in his vaults to live a comfortable life of leisure if he so chose. So why was it again that he wasn’t lazing around his villa?_ _

__Oh, right. He’d wanted a sense of purpose._ _

__Only moments after Mallard’s dramatic exit, there came a knock on the door, and Draco sighed. He straightened up and prepared to deal with Madame Lafarge. Madame Mallard must’ve tripped over her rival in the corridor outside his office and shoved her magnanimity down Lafarge’s throat._ _

“ _Entrez_!” he called out. 

Sticking her head in the door, Émilie said, “ _Excusez-moi Monsieur Malfoy. Monsieur Potter voulait vous voir_.” 

__Something inside Draco twisted itself in uncomfortable knots. His eyes fell to his desk, and unconsciously, he straightened his things—parchments were shuffled into neat piles, his quill was placed neatly beside his ink pot—as he said for Potter to come in. The note Potter’d sent him that morning suddenly sprang to his mind, which had no trouble producing images to go along with it._ _

__Potter stepped into his office almost shyly, and Émilie withdrew. This was to be it, then. He’d come to say good-bye. In his lap, Draco’s hand clenched and twisted the edge of his robes. He should not be minding Potter’s leaving nearly as much as he did, he told himself._ _

__“I, er,” Potter began. His ineloquence made Draco want to grin. “Stupid, really, but I’ve only just realised this morning I’ve no idea about returning to England—how to make arrangements, I mean.”_ _

__“Oh,” Draco said, realising he wasn’t being his most eloquent himself._ _

__“You’re free to—” Draco began to say just as Potter said, “I think I—”_ _

__“Sorry,” Draco said as Potter smiled. “You were going to say?”_ _

__“Only that I’ve decided to stay on a couple days. In Paris, I mean,” he hastened to explain. “I thought I’d take a room in that hotel. Émilie was telling me this morning she’s got an uncle who takes tourists on photography tours in Paris. And—stupid of me, really,” he said for the second time, “but I’ve got all of two photos of Paris and the ones I took Sunday evening over the Pyrenees.”_ _

__“I’ve never met her uncle, but her parents are lovely people. I’m sure you’ll enjoy . . .” Draco’s voice trailed off. He felt irrationally jealous at the thought of someone else taking Harry around Paris. His quill wasn’t quite parallel to his ink pot, and he adjusted it._ _

__“You’ve met her parents?” Harry asked._ _

__“Muggle parents are invited to the palace for the weekend before their child beings their first year, and twice a semester after that. Madame Maxime wants them to understand the world their children are becoming a part of. The professors meet with the parents and explain what their children are studying and how they’re progressing. The students demonstrate their spell casting.” It must be utterly terrifying for Muggle parents, learning their children were witches and wizards and sending them off to some school they’d never seen, nor even heard of, to learn things they’d not thought were real. If Draco ever had a child, he didn’t think he could do it. “It gives them some peace of mind.”_ _

__Harry didn’t respond. He stood there, as if in a trance, looking at Draco. The look on his face reminded Draco of someone seeing another person and knowing they know the person from somewhere, but being unable for the life of them to think where._ _

__Coming back to himself, Harry asked, “Was that Mathilde Mallard in the corridor just now? She looked ready to rip someone’s head off.”_ _

__“Only one specific someone,” Draco responded dryly._ _

__“Uh-oh. What happened?”_ _

__Draco explained what had transpired._ _

__“What brought that on?”_ _

__“Who knows. Maybe Lafarge’s omelette looked fluffier than hers this morning. There doesn’t need to be a reason with those two. She bluffed. I called the bluff. I’d say I won, but as I had the chance to be rid of one of the two of them and blew it, I’m not sure I did.”_ _

__“Poor Draco,” Harry consoled. He looked down at his shoes, and then, head still lowered, he looked at Draco. “I, er, I could buy you lunch, you know, to, er . . .”_ _

__His heart beating faster than it had any reason to, Draco stumbled over his reply nearly as much as Potter’d stumbled over the invitation, offering only a rather pathetic, “Er, okay.”_ _

____

.~*~.

“Émilie mentioned her uncle taught her the hour before sunset was a good time to take photos outside. Good light,” Harry commented as he broke off a piece of sliced baguette and helped himself to brie. He’d teased Draco when the cheese tray had been brought to them, threatening to ask for crackers, and had received a death glare in return, but the truth was, he was going to have to find himself somewhere in London to buy some really good cheese and a nice baguette when he returned.

“Yes, she mentioned the same to me,” Draco responded.

Harry’s eyes shot to Draco quickly then darted away just as fast. In contrast, he chewed the crusty bread with deliberate slowness and touched his napkin to his lips after he swallowed. Émilie’d told him she’d been going to put a photo album together for Draco, but he’d been so focused on the photo of them she’d taken, he’d scarcely been listening. Had she given Draco a copy of the same photo? What had he thought of it, Harry wondered? Had he thought the same as Harry had?

“Did she, er, give you a—”

“Photo? Yes. Yesterday. I take it she—”

“Gave a copy to me to? Yeah. This morning.”

Their eyes met, and neither looked away until someone nearby dropped a glass, and the noise it made as it shattered made them both jump. After that, an uncomfortable silence settled over them for the first time since Monday evening. The air around him felt charged with electricity, and Harry felt gooseflesh cover his arms. He sipped his wine, more for something to do than because he wanted it. 

Draco glanced all around the terrace, his eyes never landing on one particular thing. “You’re lucky her uncle was able to fit you in. Summer is the busiest time for tourists,” he said in a rushed way that made Harry think he’d said it just to break the silence.

“Luckily, he had a cancellation. She said he has different areas he takes clients to. Er, Montmartre, I think she said? And, er, something St Antoine, I forget—”

“Faubourg St Antoine?” Draco suggested.

“Right, and er, _Le Marais_. That’s where we went—”

“Monday night, yes.”

“One or two other places, the covered passages we went to yesterday, or she said he could focus on the main tourist places.”

“Did you have any idea—”

“Er, yeah. I thought I’d stick to the main tourist places. I thought, if he could help me get some good shots of those places, then maybe,” Harry’s stomach squirmed with nerves, “you and I could explore some of the other places this weekend. If you’ve got time.” 

Draco licked his lips. Harry could see his chest rising and falling with every breath he took. “I’ve time,” he said. “Other professors are going to oversee things over the weekend.”

.~*~.

Harry looked out over the rooftops of Paris. After they’d eaten, he’d taken the opportunity to walk around the terrace and get a few shots of the Parisian skyline. It gave him the chance to catch his breath. Sitting across from Draco had made him feel as if he were flying in a race and he’d suddenly realised he was lost—flooded with adrenaline but with no idea where he was.

His camera had given him the time-out he’d needed to correct course, so to speak. Novice though he was, he attempted to play around with composition, capturing both the Eiffel Tower and the _Arc de Triomphe_ from different angles. Looking at the photos he’d taken on his camera’s LCD screen, he thought they were pretty good. There was one shot he quite liked. It was a photo of the Eiffel Tower, but the tower was not the focal point. Rather, at first glance, the photo appeared to be of roses growing along a trellis, but then one saw the tower visible in the distance, as if it had just happened to be there by chance. On his way to return to their table, he saw Draco sitting with his coffee, looking off at the horizon. His posture was relaxed, and the expression on his face was wistful. Quickly, Harry raised his camera and snapped a photo.

Sometimes it was better to just let oneself get lost and see where one ended up.

“Émilie said her uncle would meet us in front of the Louvre at three,” he said as he retook his seat. Glancing at his watch, he saw that they had a little over an hour. 

“We could just walk around, if you’d like,” Draco suggested.

.~*~.

Leaving the _Hotel de la Rose Rouge_ , Draco lead Harry down the _Avenue de George V_ towards the Seine. It had been one thing for Harry to be willing to spend his afternoons and evenings with Draco when it had been spend them with him or spend them alone, but this was entirely different. Harry had chosen to stay in France for a few days longer for no reason other than because he’d wanted to, and it was _him_ Harry had asked to join him.

They were near the _Avenue des Champs-Elysees_ , and just like there, the _Avenue de George V_ was lined with expensive Muggle designer shops, but it was far less crowded. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever said,” commented Harry, knocking his hand against Draco’s, “but you’ve really done a brilliant job with the school.”

Gratified by the compliment, Draco thanked him. 

“It must’ve been a monumental job. Organising something like this for kids from so many different countries and getting all the retired players you did. Then arranging all the Beauxbatons students to work as assistants and chaperones and planning all the afternoon trips for the kids. Scheduling everything so everyone got to work with each coach and go on each of the trips.”

“Madame Maxime appealed to the retired players to participate personally, and the excursions were planned by the Transfigurations and Herbology professors. It was simple enough to rotate the groups, really. There’s a scavenger hunt tomorrow, which the Grounds Keeper is at the palace now laying out. Then Sunday, there’s a match between the Beauxbatons Quidditch players. Kids who normally play against each other will be teammates.”

Harry grimaced. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? It wouldn’t have gone well when we played.”

“To tell the truth,” Draco said with a chuckle, “I think they’re planning a little espionage—checking out the school-year competition whilst there’s nothing at stake.”

“Cunning.”

“Aside from that, most of the weekend is free time. Dinner both nights will be a picnic on the grounds with some games the Beauxbatons students are planning. With this many kids, it’s best to keep them busy to keep them out of trouble, but I didn’t want to over-schedule them either. I thought it was best to keep the students in groups by nationality for the first week. Some would already know each other, and they would be attending the same schools in a year or two. Also, I thought the familiarity of their own language being spoken without the aid of the translation charms would make them more comfortable. Translation charms are great, but what your hearing not matching the movements of the other person’s mouth can be a little disconcerting, especially for children.”

“Just the casting of the translation charms alone must’ve been a huge job.”

“It was, but the Charms professor handled that. He and his best students worked for days making sure everywhere open to the students was covered.”

“Aren’t you worried about the students venturing into other areas of the palace?”

“Warded, also thanks to the Charms professor and his students.”

“Did the Muggle Studies professor do anything?”

“She came up with the idea. That was her contribution.”

As they walked, Harry and Draco looked at various shop windows, their eyes sometimes catching and holding the other’s gaze in their reflections, their fingers sometimes casually brushing the other’s hand. The buildings lining the street were in the same elegant style as those on the _Champs-Elysées_ , and Harry would stop now and then to snap a photo. One he particularly liked was of the elaborate, lace-like wrought iron of a Juliette balcony across the street, peeking out behind the bright green leaves of the tree in front of it. 

For Draco’s part, he liked the chance Harry’s attention being on taking a photo gave him to ogle the man all he liked. Every picture he took, he showed to Draco, and every time Harry showed him a new picture, Draco took the opportunity to stand close enough that their arms pressed against each other. Harry smelled clean, like soap, and Draco breathed deeply, filling his lungs. 

The _Avenue de George V_ ended at the Seine, where the Eiffel Tower could be seen across the river, rising above the trees lining the Avenue de New York. Harry got a couple of photos of the tower framed by the trees, the tower seeming quite small in comparison due to the distance. On the corner of the _Avenue de George V_ and the Avenue de New York, the French flag fluttered in the breeze, and Harry got a picture with the beautifully ornate building behind it as a backdrop.

They walked along the _Cours Albert 1er_ and from there to the _Cours la Reine_ to the _Place de la Concorde_ with its fountains and Egyptian obelisk and through the _Jardin des Tuileries_ to the Louvre.

.~*~.

Looking at the LCD screen on the back of his camera, Harry was pleased with the photo he’d taken. In the centre stood the sleek, contemporary glass pyramid, surrounded by the three wings of the Louvre. The juxtaposition of the ultra-modern and the several-centuries-old worked well, he thought, and he showed the image on the screen to Draco.

“Too bad there’s so many people about, though,” Harry commented. There were scores of other visitors walking around the courtyard.

“We could cast a few Muggle repelling charms, but I don’t think the French Ministry of Magic would look too favourably on it.”

Harry laughed. Once, a comment like that from Draco would’ve sent him into an indignant rage, but now, having got to know him better, Harry took it as the joke it was intended as—off colour though it may’ve been. Harry could imagine George Weasley saying the same thing and being scolded by his wife.

“We’d take them down once I got the shot, of course.” Harry looked at the pyramid. “You know what would make a really cool photo? Looking straight down at it from above.”

“I don’t reckon the ministry would take any kinder to your flying over the main courtyard of the Louvre on a broomstick.”

“If I wore my cloak and cast a Disillusionment charm on myself as well, just in case the cloak slipped or blew in the wind . . .”

“Excuse me, you are Mr Potter, yes?” asked a middle-aged man approaching them.

“Yes,” Harry answered. “You’re Émilie’s uncle?”

“Pierre Renaud,” said the man, holding his hand out, first to Harry then to Draco. “And you are ze Professor Malfoy we ‘ear so much praise of from our Émilie.”

“I hope it’s okay if Draco . . .?”

“But, of course. _Monsieur_ Malfoy is most welcome. Will you be taking photos as well, _Monsieur_?”

“No, not me,” Draco said, taking half a step back. “Harry’s the photographer.”

.~*~.

Draco stood to the side and watched as Harry and _Monsieur_ Renaud talked about what sorts of photos Harry hoped to take, and Harry showed the other man the photos he’d already got.

“Zees are very good, _Monsieur_. And you say you ‘ave never taken a photography class?”

“No, never. But I think I may when I get back to England. I bought this camera years ago, fully intending on learning about all the features it’s got, but all I’ve ever used is the automatic, point-and-shoot setting.”

 _Monsieur_ Renaud agreed. “You most certainly should. You ‘ave a natural eye for composition.” He led them close to the pyramid, talking about the importance of light and the way it plays off different surfaces. From the right angle, he showed them how the Louvre reflected on the glass of the pyramid, and Harry got a shot of both the reflection and the building itself that he was thrilled with, if the way he beamed as he showed the photo to Draco was any indication.

For the next three hours, _Monsieur_ Renaud led them around some of Paris’ most popular sights, showing Harry how to capture them in out of the ordinary ways, and when they said _au revoir_ at the end of the tour, Harry had some beautiful shots and a better understanding of how to use the manual settings on his camera. He’d even learned how to remove all the unwanted people from shots, like the one he’d got of the courtyard right before _Monsieur_ Renaud had joined them, but it involved Muggle technology and Draco hadn’t understood any of it.

“Feel like sitting a while?” Draco asked. _Monsieur_ Renaud had taken them around all the main Parisian tourist attractions, from the Louvre to Notre Dame and they’d ended at the Eiffel Tower. It was clear Harry’d enjoyed the tour, but now that it was over, Draco was glad to have him to himself again.

“Yeah. And I could go for something to drink.”

They walked in the direction of the _Pont de l'Alma_ and then down what was once a highway on-ramp, the highway having been transformed into a riverside park. There were people sitting on wooden benches facing the Seine. An old man and a young girl sat together with fishing rods, and Harry commented he hadn’t known one could fish in the Seine.

“I don’t think I’d advise eating the fish, though,” Draco responded humorously.

Just ahead, parents and a young child rode bikes, the child with training wheels. People relaxed on wide, wooden lounge chairs overlooking the river—one or two might’ve even been asleep. There were floating gardens reached via a floating bridge, and on the other side of the promenade were fenced-in sand volleyball courts.

“This is brilliant,” Harry said.

There were also numerous cafés, and after three hours of walking around Paris in July, they were both glad to claim a table at one beneath a canvas awning. A waiter soon approached and Draco ordered, “ _Deux diabolos menthe, s'il vous plaît_.”

“What did you order?” Harry asked. “Anything with _diablos_ in the name sounds a bit strong.”

Draco smirked and sat back. Stretching out his tired legs, he said, “Just you wait and see.”

When their drinks arrived a minute later, Harry tasted his gingerly. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Limonade with a little mint syrup mixed in. And it’s ‘ _diabolo_ ’ not ‘ _diablo_.”

.~*~.

After their drinks and a bit of people watching, Draco and Harry walked the length of the riverside park, and Harry got a number of photos—including a few of Draco when he was looking elsewhere that the other man wasn’t aware he’d got. They were his guilty little secret. Souvenirs of the undeniable crush he’d developed on the last man in the world he’d ever have thought he’d develop a crush on. He was afraid that when he returned to England in a couple of days, he wouldn’t believe the time he’d spent with Draco had ever really happened, and he wanted proof.

If Harry was being totally honest with himself, his decision to stay in Paris a little while longer had been influenced far more by his wanting to stretch out the time he got to spend with Draco than with wanting to see more of Paris. Had Draco said he wouldn’t have any time that weekend to spend with him, Harry’d likely have given up the idea and returned to England

“Did you really understand what _Monsieur_ Renaud was talking about with those Muggle computer things?” Draco asked.

“Yeah. I’ve got one. Spend too much time playing around on it, really. The one I’ve got now is just a little thing. They call the kind I’ve got a laptop, because you can set it on your lap.”

“The Muggle Studies professor we had before Madame Canfield tried to show them to the staff once or twice. She set up one of those—what do they call them, pages?—for the school.”

“Beauxbatons has a webpage?” Harry asked, in stunned disbelief. “The Ministry allows that?” 

“For families of Muggle-born or half-blood students. I’ve never actually seen it, but I understand it . . . opens—is that the word?—to say that the page is under development for a fictitious private school at an undisclosed location in France, or some such thing, in case a Muggle should happen to find it, but families of Beauxbatons students are shown how to open the real page. Also, it helps bolster the cover story Muggle family members of Beauxbatons students give their family and friends, should any of them be too curious.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. Draco Malfoy knew what computers were. Everything Harry learned about the other man made him want to learn more.

“You like being at Beauxbatons?” Harry asked.

Draco said yes, very much. He liked teaching flying, and he talked about how he’d come to be hired. Shortly after his mother and he had immigrated following their trials, Madame Maxime came to him at the Malfoy Estate in _la Côte d'Azur_ and asked him point blank what he was doing in France. “Apparently, she was satisfied, because she offered me the job on a trial basis. The old Flying Instructor wanted to retire.” Draco dropped his head. He started to speak twice but remained silent until, finally, he said she’d told him she was giving him a chance in honour of Professor Dumbledore and not to disappoint her. “She believed he’d have wanted me to have a chance to redeem myself.” 

Harry brushed his hand against Draco’s, letting the contact last longer than an accidental bump. Harry’s skin tingled. “She was absolutely right,” he said. 

The sun had dropped low in the sky, and they returned to a restaurant at the foot of the _Pont Alexandre III_ they’d walked passed earlier. Outdoor tables overlooked the Seine, where a glass enclosed boat passed beneath the bridge.

Harry said he could see why people fell in love with Paris. The glass dome of the _Grand Palais_ could be seen across the bridge from where they sat, and from the other bank, he reckoned the Eiffel Tower would be visible.

“Do you ever think about going home?” he asked.

“Once the Quidditch school is over, I’ll go home for a few weeks before the new term starts up.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Meant. Yeah, I know. But it’s your answer.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is.”

A waiter came and took their orders. When he’d gone, Draco said, “I’ve lived in France for more than a third of my life. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of anywhere else as home. Mother and I speak French to each other. I think in French. I dream in French. This past week is the most English I’ve spoken in years.” 

“I guess I’m not surprised. Remember when we arrived and I asked if there were more kids coming from Britain? You said, ‘No. Zere is not’.”

Draco looked like something suddenly made sense. “Did I? That explains why your eyebrows shot up into your hair.”

A group of noisy tourists passed by, and a baby who’d been sleeping in a pram at a nearby table began to fuss.

“I suppose all of Great Britain expected you to become Head Auror,” Draco said. 

“By the time I was twenty-five, on my way to becoming the youngest Minister of Magic in history.”

“And producing half dozen ginger-haired, green-eyed children along the way.”

“If not more.”

“I’d have been surprised if you had—Auror and Minister, anyway. I’d fully expected the ginger-haired children.”

“You’d’ve been the only one surprised. Even I thought I wanted it. To be an Auror, anyway. Went into training that summer.”

“Why’d you—”

“Drop out? Because once I’d started, I realised I didn’t want it. Didn’t want to admit it, though, because it was what I’d wanted since Third Year. But after almost a year of training and trying to make myself want it, Arthur and Molly—Mr and Mrs Weasley—sat me down one day and told me even though they weren’t my parents, they could see when one of their children was miserable. I . . . came out to them then, too.”

Their waiter brought their wine.

“I like to think my father would have accepted me.” Draco said into his glass, so softly Harry wasn’t sure the words were meant to be heard.

“He would’ve.”

Draco opened his mouth—to protest, judging by the look on his face.

Harry grazed his fingers across the back of Draco’s hand. “I saw him the night of the final battle. I heard how he begged to be allowed to enter the castle. He came up with pretences and excuses, but all he cared about was finding you. And I saw him in the Great Hall, both your mother and him, running through the battle, trying to find you. I can’t say whether he’d have been happy about it, but I do believe the man I saw that night would’ve accepted you as you are.”

Draco turned his hand over, and their fingers slipped between the other’s. Their eyes met, and neither looked away. Were they not in crowded terrace, Harry would’ve reached across the table and kissed him.

An old man with steel-grey hair and an age-worn face came boldly up to their table. He held himself tall and proud as he looked at the two of them sitting so close together, their hands touching, his almost Dumbledore-like blue eyes moving from one to the other. The old man spoke slowly and softly but with passion, and Harry grit his teeth together. He didn’t need to know French to know what the man was saying. He’d have liked nothing more than to grab Draco by the collar of his shirt and kiss him full on the mouth just to give the old man and anyone else who cared to look a good shock. He wished he could speak French if for no other reason than to tell the man where he could shove his homophobia, and it killed Harry a little inside that as the man spoke, Draco sat quietly and listened to whatever vitriol he was spitting at them. All Harry could do was curl his fingers around Draco’s in silent support to him and in visible contempt to the old man.

When the old man finished his speech, Draco spoke one short sentence just as softly and slowly as he had, and Harry was horrified when he thought he heard the word _désolé_. Didn’t that mean “sorry?” Draco hadn’t just apologised . . .

The man said something else as he looked back and forth between the two of them again before walking off.

“Please tell me you didn’t just apologise to that—”

“It wasn’t what you think.”

“I know exactly what it was,” Harry said in disbelief. “You think I haven’t heard it before?”

Draco looked at him, and the pained look in his eyes made Harry fall silent.

“His said his brother was gay,” Draco said in a quiet, hoarse-sounding voice as he looked at the table in front of Harry, “but no one ever knew, not until he died last month.” Draco passed his hand over his lips. “They found letters, going through his things. There was a man. They were in the resistance together when they were eighteen, he said. For over fifty years, they loved each other with no one close to them ever knowing or even suspecting. The other man was like extended family, always at holidays and important events. No one thought it odd, not after what they’d been through during the occupation, their lives depending on each other. They were like brothers, their families both thought. The man died several years ago, and his brother suffered the pain of losing the man he’d loved all his life without being able to share his grief with anyone. He said he was ashamed that his brother had not felt he could confide in him. He said,” Draco paused a moment, “it did him good to see us together. He said he didn’t want anyone else to live in hiding the way his brother had.” Draco looked at Harry. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him we weren’t . . .”

“No. Of course not,” Harry said. He felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach by a hippogriff. He wanted to follow after the old man and apologise for what he’d been thinking.

Their waiter brought out their starters.

They both ate quietly. The old man’s story was weighing heavily in Harry’s mind, and he was sure it was in Draco’s as well. Other diners were likely staring at them, but Harry didn’t care. He’d been looked at and pointed at and whispered about since he was eleven. He did worry, though, that the nosey attention of strangers might matter more to Draco than it did to him. 

“This is very good,” Draco said decidedly when they’d almost finished their starters. Beneath the table and out of sight, his foot pressed against Harry’s and didn’t move away. Looking at Harry, he asked, “Try it?” and held his fork out for Harry to take.

“It’s very good,” Harry agreed. He speared one of his honey-glazed grilled scallops on the fork and handed it back, his foot returning the light pressure.

“So, er, if you didn’t expect me to become an Auror, what did you think I’d do?” Harry asked. His stomach was twisting itself in knots, and he felt a thrill sweep through him. The atmosphere around them shifted. It pulsed with energy, raw and alive. 

Draco sipped his wine, and Harry’s eyes were fixed on his lips pressed against the glass, his fingers holding the stem, and he was sure Draco was perfectly aware of it. Their conversation stayed on everyday topics, but questioning and answering looks passed between them, and they found every opportunity to brush hands they dared.

“To be honest, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d become a Hogwarts professor.”

“A professor, really?” 

“Break the curse on the Defence position. That crew you taught and trained up in Fifth Year knew how to handle a wand damn well when it came to it.”

They finished their starters, and their waiter brought their mains. 

“I think I might study French when I get back home,” Harry said.

Draco laughed. “What brought the sudden interest on?”

“Hearing you speak it redefines the term oral sex,” Harry said, bluntly throwing caution to the wind, although he did keep his voice down, even if he didn’t overhear any fragments of English being spoken around them.

Smirking, Draco said seductively, “ _Lundi mardi mercredi jeudi vendredi samedi dimanche. Dix vingt trente quarante cinquante._ ”

“What did you say?” Harry asked.

Draco sat back and grinned. “Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday. Ten twenty thirty forty fifty.” 

Harry laughed so hard, if other diners weren’t already casting them sidelong glances, they were now.

.~*~.

After the longest and most torturous dinner Draco could remember, Harry and he crossed the Seine to take the Floo back to the _Hotel de la Rose Rouge_ from the _Champs-Élysées – Clemenceau _Floo Terminal. Draco thought his heart was pounding hard enough for passers-by to hear.__

When Harry threw the powder on the glowing embers, he turned to look at him. “Come up for a bit?” he asked nervously. The bravado he’d shown at the restaurant with his comment about Draco’s French was gone. The man standing before him was not the Saviour of all Britain; he was just a man like any other, inviting another man up to his hotel room and afraid of being rejected.

__The terminal was empty apart from themselves, and Draco closed the distance between them and kissed him, a gentle pressing of his lips against Harry’s. He trailed his fingers down the side of Harry’s face to his throat and chest. “ _Oui_ ,” he answered against Harry’s lips before kissing him again. _ _

__Stepping from the flames into the hotel’s lobby only moments, Draco’s mouth was dry, and his fingers twitched to weave themselves through Harry’s hair._ _

__And to do other things, as well._ _

__“I’m on the seventh floor,” Harry said, his voice strained, as they crossed the lobby to the lift._ _

__No lift had ever moved slower._ _

__Finally, the doors opened, and they stepped out into the corridor. Harry’s room was at the end of the corridor, and when he drew his wand to unlock the door, Draco saw his hand shake._ _

__He couldn’t wait any longer. Even before the words of the spell had been spoken, Draco grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him towards him. Just as eager, Harry’s free hand cupped the side of Draco’s face before sliding down his neck to his shoulder and around his back. The few kisses they’d shared in the Floo terminal had been starters for this, the main course. The moment their lips met, Draco knew he’d never really known what magic was before. Kissing Harry excited him more than any other man ever had. Harry’s mouth, his hands, his body, the feel of his hair between Draco’s fingers . . . Draco had never been more aware of the feel of another man’s body before. Before Harry pulled away, he took Draco’s lip between his teeth and tugged it gently. He released it, then captured it again. Breathing heavily and each with a drunken smile on his face, they stood in the corridor with their arms around each other, their faces so close the tips of their noses touched and each exhaled breath ghosted over the other’s skin._ _

__Harry had barely whispered the words of the spell to unlock the door before his mouth was on Draco’s again. They stumbled into the room, holding each other so tightly they nearly tripped over each other’s feet. Once inside, Draco shoved Harry against the closed door, their lips still moving together, and their tongues learning the contours of each other’s mouth. Moving from Harry’s mouth, Draco kissed and nibbled and sucked along his jaw as he pressed his hand against the front of Harry’s trousers._ _

__“Fuck, yes,” Harry hissed, dropping his head back against the door and exposing his neck more fully to Draco. He moaned as Draco pulled the button on his jeans open and lowered the zip._ _

__Harry pulled Draco’s shirt from his trousers and fumbled with the buttons. Once he’d got them open, he slid his hands under and scraped his nails down Draco’s chest hard enough to leave pink lines behind. He pinched Draco’s nipples and pushed him backwards until Draco’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and they tumbled onto it. Kneeling over him on the bed, Harry’s hands stroked all over Draco’s chest, before moving downwards to his waist and slowly opening his trousers. Harry made such a tease of it, Draco promised himself he’d make him pay until Harry’s hand slipped under his pants, making Draco swear loudly. He dug his heals into the bed and bucked his hips up against Harry’s hand._ _

__Pushing himself up onto one arm, Draco reached for the waistband of Harry’s jeans and pulled him to where Draco could reach to slide his own hand under Harry’s boxers. Dropping his head down and pulling his lip between his teeth hard enough to turn the pink skin white, Harry groaned and covered Draco’s hand with his own free one. Draco’s free hand wrapped around Harry’s, and together they stroked each other and themselves. It was awkward to manage, but it was brilliant._ _

__Wanting more, Draco again pulled Harry closer by the open fly of his jeans. He met Harry’s eyes and held them as he ran his tongue over Harry’s boxers, up and down, over and over before pulling the fabric down and out of his way. His eyes still locked on Harry’s, Draco licked him, tip to base and base to tip._ _

__Harry grunted and cursed and rocked his hips forward before pushing Draco onto his back and taking him into his mouth through his pants, his hand cupping Draco’s sack._ _

__Letting Draco slip free, Harry rose from the bed and stood beside it. “Come here, lay like this,” he ordered, directing Draco to lie across the width of the bed. Standing beside Draco’s head where it lay on the edge of the bed, Harry undressed. Draco watched him, pulling his own clothes off as well. Balancing himself with one hand on the bed, Harry kicked his jeans and boxer off and knelt down to kiss Draco deeply. Draco held Harry’s head in his hands as they kissed, and Harry’s free hand ran over Draco wherever he could reach. Harry covered Draco’s face with kisses and crawled onto the bed as he licked his way down his throat to his chest. He paid special attention to Draco’s nipples, sucking on them, nibbling them gently, blowing air across them, and Draco fisted the bedcover in his hands as he squirmed beneath him. Harry moved lower, over Draco’s ribs to his abdomen, then lower and nuzzled his face against Draco’s length before taking him into his mouth._ _

__Draco’s hands clenched into fists, and his toes curled. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed ragged breaths through clenched teeth as bucked his hips up and fucked Harry’s mouth. He took Harry in his hands and stroked him until Harry moved, placing both of his knees on the bed on other side of Draco’s head, straddling his face._ _

__His heart threatening to hammer its way out of his chest, Draco understood now why Harry’d had him lie across the bed. He wrapped one arm around Harry’s thigh and stroked him as he shifted enough to reach, then he wrapped his mouth around Harry and sucked greedily._ _

__Harry gasped and cried out. He buried his face against Draco’s thigh as mumbled oaths fell from his lips, and he gripped Draco’s leg hard enough that his nails dug into the skin._ _

__It wasn’t an easy position. It was hard to keep another man in your mouth when all you wanted to do was alternately clench your jaw or scream, but they established a rhythm that soon had them both coming hard all over the bed and each other. Feeling more sated than he ever had before, Draco lay across the bed with his arms spread out wide, breathing hard and feeling positively boneless. Above him, Harry’s elbows buckled, and he collapsed onto Draco. He lay across him for the span of two breaths before rolling onto his side beside him._ _

__When he’d caught his breath enough to speak, Draco said, “That—was fucking brilliant.”_ _

__“Mmm,” Harry hummed. He traced the side of Draco’s leg with the tip of his nose before pressing closed-mouth kisses below his knee. “Glad you liked it,” he said. “Do you have to go back to the palace, or can you stay?”_ _

__Draco closed his eyes. Harry wanted him to stay. “I can stay,” he answered, thanking his lucky stars the Astronomy professor had wanted to observe some rare something-or-other that night and had already arrived at the palace before Draco’d left._ _

__“Good.” Harry pushed himself up onto his elbow and kissed all over Draco’s kneecap._ _

__Draco pushed himself up onto his elbow as well and watched him. No one had ever kissed his knee before. They’d just gone down on each other at the same time, but watching Harry place small kisses on his knee held Draco spellbound._ _

__“I hate sleeping alone after sex,” Harry said as he lay back down. He lay on his side and wrapped his arm around Draco’s leg like it was a teddy bear._ _

__They laid together in that oddly wonderful position for several minutes, and Draco looked up at the ceiling, feeling perfectly content and decidedly drowsy. He pillowed one arm beneath his head and stroked where he could reach on Harry’s legs with the other hand._ _

__“Mmm,” Harry hummed again. “And the only thing better than a good wank first thing in the morning is a good fuck against the shower wall.”_ _

____

.~*~.

“No one will notice you’re wearing the same clothes you wore yesterday, will they? Maybe you should transfigure your shirt,” Harry suggested. “It wouldn’t do to set a bad example for your students.”

Draco buttoned the last button, and he looked at Harry lying in the bed, the sheet pulled up to his waist but naked beneath. He was propped up on a pile of pillows with one arm behind his head, and his left leg bent up and rocking slowly. _Merde_ …, Draco thought. _Ça, c’est une image._ He looked too good to resist, and Draco crawled back onto the bed and kissed him till they were both breathless.

Harry’s hands began opening his shirt.

“I just buttoned that,” Draco reprimanded.

“I know. I watched. Looks better this way,” Harry said.

“What happened to not setting a bad example for my students?”

“They’re not here.”

Draco stood up and re-buttoned his shirt. “I’ll Floo straight into my quarters, but you’re not making going back to the palace any easier.”

“Not trying to,” Harry said as he slid a hand under the sheet. 

Draco’s mouth watered. Harry’d been right with what he’d said the night before. A good fuck against the shower wall was a brilliant way to start the day. He felt a lingering burn, nothing near painful, just enough to provide a physical reminder—not that Draco’d be likely to forget. He’d never had better sex in his life. And he wanted more. They had all weekend, and he wanted Harry on his back beneath him.

“I’ll come back,” he said. “Only, I really do need to make an appearance. I am meant to be the director, after all. But I needn’t stay long. The Astronomy professor is in charge today, and the librarian will come tonight and stay till tomorrow night.” 

“I’ll be right here,” Harry said, stretching out his arms and legs, the sheet slipping lower, before curling up on his side to go back to sleep. “Try not to make too much noise, yeah?”

.~*~.

Draco took the lift down to the lobby looking forward to the weekend ahead more than he could ever remember doing before. This was the maddest thing he’d ever done: Harry Potter and he, sharing a weekend of incredible sex. He started to laugh at the sheer unbelievability of it until the lift stopped at the fourth floor, and an elderly couple speaking Portuguese stepped in. The couple tipped their heads at him, and they exchanged polite _bonjour_ s. Draco wondered what they made of the wide grin he could not rein in.

.~*~.

Dressed once more in his standard wizarding robes, Draco left his quarters and made his way through the palace. His mind was far more back in Harry’s hotel room than it was in the palace, and he was determined to make his escape back to Paris as quickly as he could. Needing to talk to the Astronomy professor, he made his way to his colleague’s office before going to his own, but when he reached the room, nearby portraits informed him they’d been asked to request he meet _Monsieur_ Picques in his own office.

“ _Est-ce qu’il y a un souci_?” Draco asked, worried something might’ve happened in his absence. 

The portraits replied that they understood there was a problem with one of the coaches for the following week.

The children were all fine then; there hadn’t been any accidents. That was good, but Draco exhaled loudly in irritation. This had to be more of Millard and Lafarge’s doing. Draco didn’t care anymore—French Quidditch icons or not, if they were to continue the Quidditch school next year, those two would not be asked back.

“ _Ah, Draco, vous êtes de retour_ ,” called the Charms professor as Draco reached the stairs leading to his office.

Draco waited for the man to join him and asked if there’d been a problem with the translation charms. There’d been none during the week. If there were now, he wouldn’t be able to get back to Paris as soon as he wanted.

“ _Non, les enchantements fonctionnent correctement. Je voulais juste passer pour les vérifier, mais ils fonctionnement correctement _.”__

That was good. Paris sooner rather than later, then. “ _Il semblerait que soit Mallard, soit Lafarge cause quelques problèmes à Yves_ ,” Draco said as they climbed the stairs. His money was on Lafarge—it was her turn, after all. He repeated the promise he’d made to himself to his colleague. 

“ _Je croyais qu’elles étaient parties pour le week-end _.”_ _

Draco’d also thought they’d left for the weekend. He related Madame Mallard’s threat not to return next week if Madame Lafarge stayed on. “ _Peut-être qu’aujourd’hui c’est Madame Lafarge qui menace de ne pas revenir_.” 

Opening his office door, Draco found the Astronomy professor with both Nicole and Émilie—the former looking highly anxious and both of the latter looking delighted, with their pleased as Punch expressions. 

“ _Ah, Draco, vous êtes là_ ,” breathed the Astronomy professor with the relieved air of one glad to pass a problem on to someone else. 

“ _Non ce n’est pas elles. C’est Viktor Krum. Une lettre de sa femme est arrivée. Il ne va pas pouvoir venir demain soir comme prévu. Il est très désolé, mais_ ” 

The Astronomy professor went on to explain and to worry—what was to be done, he asked? But Draco scarcely paid attention. He’d heard enough. Viktor Krum was not recovered enough to fly. He would not be arriving tomorrow, after all. He expressed his sincerest apologies, but he simply did not have the energy to fly. 

Émilie and Nicole giggled. 

______ _ _

.~*~.

Harry was lying in his bed drifting between sleep and wakefulness when his hotel room door opened, and he heard Draco whisper he was back. Harry cracked one eye open barely enough to see, but did not let on he was awake. Without his glasses, all he could see was the blurry shape of a blonde man stripping his robes off. Rather a good reason to look into that corrective eye surgery Hermione’s parents had told him about.

The mattress dipped and squeaked as Draco climbed back into the bed, then an arm wrapped around Harry’s waist and kisses were pressed along his shoulder. “ _Rouge orange jaune vert bleu indigo violet _,” was whispered into his ear.__

__Harry laughed. “Colours?”_ _

__“Very good,” Draco answered._ _

__Harry rolled onto his back, and they kissed. Draco’s lips moved from Harry’s mouth to his jaw and continued to his ear. “Any idea where I can find a replacement Seeker for the second week of school?” Draco asked as he bit Harry’s ear._ _

__“Is Viktor alright?” Harry asked._ _

__“On the mend,” Draco assured him, tracing patterns on Harry’s chest with his finger. “But not up to flying for hours a day with a few dozen children just yet.”_ _

__“Hm, I don’t know.” Harry dragged his nails down Draco’s back. “I reckon I could send out a few owls.” He kissed Draco’s chin._ _

__The kisses grew desperate, and the touches grew heated. They rolled around the bed, pulling the sheet from the mattress and knocking pillows to the floor._ _

__Draco’s hands gripped Harry’s bum, and his fingers teased him. “It’s my turn,” he whispered as he reached for the small bottle on the table beside the bed. When his hands returned, the teasing became purposeful._ _

__Harry moaned and pushed himself back against Draco’s fingers. When he felt ready, he raised himself to his hands and knees._ _

__“No. On your back. I want to see you when I fuck you.”_ _

__“Then you get on your back,” Harry said, pushing Draco down by the shoulders and straddling his waist._ _

____

.~*~.

After lying together in a state of exhausted post-coital bliss, Harry’d had the hotel send them up a picnic lunch for two, and Draco and he were lying in his bed, sharing it. He felt like he was in the middle of some sort of mad dream, like the past twelve or so hours couldn’t possibly have happened. This was the most impulsive thing Harry’d ever done. In the real world, he’d learned the hard way to be very guarded and mindful. At times, he almost felt like he needed to have a potential boyfriend fully vetted before he could say yes. It had to be Paris, Harry told himself, making him want to throw caution to the wind so completely and just let himself go. In France, he could be just Harry, and he was looking forward to the coming week more than he had looked forward to anything in a very long time.

.~*~.

“I am glad you have come back, _Monsieur_ ,” Émilie said as soon as she saw Harry.

After their lunch, Harry’d packed the few things he’d unpacked the day before and checked out of his room at the hotel. They’d returned to the palace, and he’d settled back into his room there. Aside from the time he’d get to spend with Draco—both in and out of bed—he was glad to be back at the school. The upcoming week would focus more on specific positions, preparing the kids for the matches they’d play on Thursday and Friday, and he was he was eager to work with all the future Seekers. Who knew, maybe one day in twenty or so years, he’d be watching one of the kids he trained that week playing in the World Cup, sitting there proudly and thinking, _I remember when_ . . . Or, maybe he’d run into them in the stands, maybe with their own young children, and they’d say, “Mr Potter, I remember when you gave me my first lesson as a Seeker!” and that would be great, too. 

“I’m glad to be back,” he responded. “How’s the scavenger hunt going?” 

Émilie responded that the hunt was going well. More of her Beauxbatons classmates had come for the weekend, and she and her friends who’d worked during the week had the two days to themselves. “We are to stay at the palace, but you are free to leave. Wouldn’t you rather be off enjoying yourself somewhere?”

“Not really,” Harry answered. Right then, there was nowhere he’d rather be—a nice feeling, that. Draco had one or two director things to attend to—one of them being writing to Madame Maxime to let her know Harry was staying with them another week. And Harry had some letters to write as well, to let Ron and Hermione and Andromeda know he’d be staying. Plus, he wanted to find Teddy after the scavenger hunt, to let him know. Later, maybe, Draco and he would go somewhere. Or, maybe, they’d stay at the palace. But right then, Harry was thinking that there weren’t just the students he was teaching. In front of him was a young Seeker who by that time next year might well be on the threshold of a professional career. It was true, of course, that Draco was the one who’d taught her, but Harry flattered himself that maybe he’d played a small role in that possibility. “If you’re free, why don’t you get your broom? We can take a practice Snitch up.”

To see Émilie then, one would’ve thought she’d been given five Christmases and five birthdays rolled into one.

.~*~.

“Mate? Is something wrong?” Harry asked Teddy. He’d sought his godson out after the scavenger hunt to tell him he’d be sticking around for the rest of the school, and while Teddy’d said he was glad Harry’d be there, he looked anything but. Harry was worried; was his being there casting a shadow over Teddy’s experience? This was meant to be Teddy’s big thing. Harry’d made a point of not hovering, but had just his being there spoiled things for Teddy?

“Merlin, no! All the kids think it’s well sick that you’re my godfather. They think you’re, like, some sort of superhero or something. None of them have godfathers who used to play Quidditch.” 

Harry had to stifle a laugh. All the kids saw him as was someone who used to play Quidditch. “Well, that’s good, then. But something’s bothering you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Teddy.”

Teddy shuffled his feet. “Only . . .”

“Only, what?” Harry prompted.

“I don’t wanna be a Seeker. I wanna be a Chaser,” Teddy said as if admitting to something terrible.

Harry waited for more, but nothing else came. He was confused. “So? Be a Chaser.” Harry’d filled in the registration form saying Teddy wanted to be a Seeker, but he was sure that could be changed. Unless, maybe there wasn’t an open spot for him with the Chasers?

“But you were a Seeker,” Teddy said, looking up at him with eyes that were identical to Harry’s own.

“Oh, Teddy,” Harry said, feeling rotten. He’d only meant to encourage him, certainly not pressure him or make him feel he had to be a Seeker. He didn’t care what Teddy did, as long as it was what he enjoyed.

“But I do like Seeking. Catching the Snitch is great!” Teddy said. “But you only get to catch it once, and then the match is over. Chasing, you can keep scoring over and over, and like Douglas says, if your Chasers are good really and score enough, it doesn’t matter if your Seeker catches the Snitch.”

.~*~.

“Children should come with instruction manuals,” Harry lamented to Draco that night as they lay together in the bath. If a good fuck in the shower was a good way to start the day, a good wank in the bath was a brilliant way to end it.

Cupping water in his palm and drizzling it over Harry’s chest, Draco said he believed there were any number of books on raising children.

“Read one of them one day, why don’t you,” Harry responded dryly. “I never meant to make him think he had to be a Seeker. I really don’t care what he wants to do, only that it’s what he wants.”

“Don’t worry about it too much. I see it every September with the First Years. Sometimes, it is the parents pushing them into playing a certain position—innocently, maybe, since it’s what they know best. Sometimes it’s the kids wanting to emulate the parents. And with your having played professionally. . .”

.~*~.

“Brilliant,” Harry said between breaths. They were both panting, and the muscles in Harry’s legs were protesting the workout, but the view was worth it. He and Draco had followed Émilie’s uncle’s advice and come to the _Sacré-Coeur_ , electing to forego the funicular and take on the challenge of climbing the stairs. From where they—and a swarm of countless other visitors—stood, Paris stretched out around them for miles in all directions. “Pity there’re so many tourists, though.”

Draco laughed and said, “Says the tourist,” and Harry laughed, too.

As he looked out over the rooftops of the French capital, Harry began to think he’d quite like to start doing a little travelling. He’d taken Teddy here and there, but only places around home. Weekends at Bristol or other beach resorts, day trips here or there. Now though, enjoying seeing Paris with Draco, and with Teddy starting Hogwarts the following year, Harry was thinking about other places he’d like to see. 

He cast a glance at Draco. It wouldn’t be the same, though. Travelling alone. 

“The dome is open to visitors,” Draco said with undisguised reluctance. “I think it’s a few hundred steps, mind,” he added almost pleadingly. Harry’s enthusiasm to escape the crowds and take in the view from the dome won him over, and he sighed. “Fine, but not till I’ve caught my breath—and make no mistake, you will owe me for this, Potter.”

.~*~.

“I may never walk again,” Draco complained. “And it’s all your fault. I hope your photos are worth the use of my legs.”

“They are,” Harry assured him, looking at his camera and flipping through the shots he’d got that day. The unparalleled view, the shots he’d taken during their trek up the hill, the one he’d got of Draco’s backside when the other man had faced away from him . . . Putting his camera down, Harry glanced around them. They’d found a little café on a corner a couple of streets away from the basilica and claimed a table in a nice, shady spot. Though not in the main tourist area, it was not far, and a good number of tourists milled about, but it was just that which gave them their privacy. The easiest place to go unnoticed was in a crowd—make that a crowd of tourists, and one could be almost invisible. Under the table, he let his hand slide up Draco’s thigh, applying more pressure the further up he went. “I do appreciate your sacrifice, and I promise, I’ll make it worth it,” he said under his breath. 

Acting very put upon, Draco said, “See that you do.”

Harry withdrew his hand one moment before a waitress approached them, and he leaned away from Draco. His thoughts drifted back to the old man who’d come up to them with the story of his brother. The world he and Draco lived in was very different than the one the man’s brother and his lover had known, but two men still could not openly show the affection a man and a woman could. Harry’s mind drifted back further, to last Monday, and the two men who’d shared a brief kiss on a doorstep on a busy Parisian street. How quickly might Draco and he become the centre of attention of the oblivious crowd around them were Harry to lean over and kiss his lips? Very quickly, he reckoned.

The waitress and Draco spoke, and Harry listened raptly. If anyone’d told him a week ago that Draco Malfoy ordering them drinks would be the sexiest thing he’d ever heard, he’d have fallen to the floor in fits of laughter. Hell, his reaction to just the idea that he and Draco would ever even have drinks together would’ve been fits of laughter.

But here they were.

“Do you like liquorice?” Draco asked, pulling Harry’s mind back from its wandering.

“Er, yeah. Why?” 

Without answering him, Draco spoke once more to the waitress. When she’d gone, Harry asked what he’d ordered them. The only answer Draco gave him was that it was one of his personal favourites, and a promise that if he liked liquorice, he’d like it.

Moments later, the waitress returned with a tray bearing two tall glasses with a small amount of a clear amber-coloured liquid, a tall pitcher of water, and a second pitcher filled with ice.

“Ah,” Draco said, as the waitress set everything on their small table. “ _Parfait, merci beaucoup_.” When she’d gone, Draco poured water into both of the glasses, and the liquid turned a cloudy, milky yellow. He added some ice cubes, handed a glass to Harry, and sipped his own.

“What you eat and drink whilst visiting France is every bit as important as what you see. It’s most popular in the south of France, but you cannot leave France without sipping a _pastis_ on a summer afternoon.”

“Is this what you drink in your villa overlooking the Mediterranean?” Harry asked. His mind supplied him with picture after picture of Draco in settings Harry imagined the French Riviera looked like, and he found himself regretting that he would never see the images in his head first-hand.

“In lounge chairs on the terrace overlooking the sea,” Draco said, as if he knew what was passing through Harry’s mind. “The water is a shade of blue you can’t imagine.” 

The pictures in Harry’s head changed to include white lounge chairs, and the colour of the sea intensified. Why did he imagine the lounge chairs were white, he wondered absently?

Pushing the thoughts aside, he tried his drink. “Oh, that’s good.”

Both the pavement where they sat and the surface of the road were made of nearly identical paving stones. The café was painted a pink-peach colour with green shutters, and ivy climbed the walls of nearly every building along their side of the street. Directly across from them, tall evergreens rose above a stone wall Harry supposed surrounded a private garden. Draco nudged him, and motioned behind Harry, where a young man with dreadlocks pulled back from his face and secured at the nape of his neck had sat down on the pavement with a rucksack next to him. He pulled something from his rucksack and set it beside him. 

Then, right there on the sidewalk, the man began to draw. 

With surprising speed, a portrait took shape as Harry watched the man work. Passers-by stopped to watch, occasionally blocking the artist from Harry’s sight until he shifted in his seat and stretched his neck to see around them. Periodically, the man referred to a photo he held in his hand, and by the time Harry had nearly finished his drink, the man had covered a space Harry guessed roughly about three feet square with the portrait of a young girl in a red hat and a blue coat.

“Renoir,” Draco said appreciatively.

Harry turned to him. Muggle history and Muggle artists? 

“I used to see a Muggle artist,” Draco said after Harry asked him where he’d learned about Muggle art. “We met when I took a job as a nude model for a class he was teaching. I became his muse. It was quite torrid.” As Draco said this, he swirled the last bit of his drink in the bottom of his glass. He looked up at Harry and burst out laughing. 

_Bastard._ Harry downed the rest of his drink. “Pity. I’d’ve made him an offer for one of your paintings to hang in my bedroom. I’ll just have to stick with my original plan to enlarge one of the photos I took of you in your sleep.”

.~*~.

The next morning, Harry lay in bed beside Draco, listening to him breath. The weekend had gone by fast—time flew when one was having incredible sex. But they still had the rest of the week. He snuggled against Draco’s side and let his eyes drift shut, intent on enjoying the last few minutes before they would have to get out of bed.

.~*~.

In his office on Monday morning, Draco arranged a grid of squares on a large board mounted on the wall; each square containing seven numbered lines. Beside the board hovered four lists of names, one list for each position: Beaters, Chasers, Keepers, and Seekers. As he tapped the first name or names on each list—one name for Keepers and Seekers, two for Beaters, and three for Chasers—the names disappeared from the list and reappeared on the grid in random squares. In the event of a team made up of the strongest players, for example, he would have to step in and move players around. He was also sure there would also be instance where some students who’d originally requested one position on the registration form but had changed to a different one would play both in order to fill all the teams. But, overall, he wanted the teams to be assigned as randomly as possible.

Only a few minutes into his work, Draco lowered his wand arm. He’d woken up with Harry’s arms around him that morning. It had been a lovely feeling. In the two years he’d wasted with François, they’d never spent the full night together. Draco’d slept in Harry’s bed now three nights in a row. On one hand, he still had trouble making himself believe this was really happening, they were really doing this, but on the other, Draco was realising just how very quickly he’d got used to waking up next to Harry. When he woke up alone next Saturday morning after Harry’d returned to England, his own bed was going to seem awfully big. 

Draco’s wand arm had fallen to his side. He raised it and returned to his work. He still had five days and four nights with Harry; he was just going to have to make the most of them. And that included making sure his work for the day was done when Harry finished his morning practices.

.~*~.

Monday afternoon, Harry and Draco headed to Paris’ Latin Quarter, starting with a visit to the _Musée de Cluny_. The museum was a small one, and didn’t draw the throngs of tourists one tripped over in other places, but it held an excellent collection of medieval art. They were now standing in a circular room whose walls were covered with six richly coloured tapestries depicting scenes of an elegantly dressed noble woman standing between a lion and a unicorn. The woman, slim and blonde, was depicted at different ages, from a young woman scarcely more than a girl to a woman approaching what would by twenty-first century standards be middle aged. Her gowns were covered with jewels, and her hair was covered by jewelled veils in her younger ages to elaborate headdresses to finally a crown. The vibrant red backgrounds were filled with flowers, fruit trees, animals and birds. In five of the tapestries, the woman’s expression was one of contentment, but in one her face held unmasked sorrow.

“They were woven around the turn of the sixteenth century,” Draco said softly without needing to consult the guide book. “I particularly wanted you to see them,” he admitted.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“What do you think of the lady?”

Harry returned his attention to the tapestries. “She’s beautiful.” The tapestry he stood before depicted the woman sitting low to the ground, the unicorn to her left and the lion to her right. Strands of pearls were woven through her hair, and her long, full skirts puddled on the ground around her. The unicorn sat directly beside her with its front legs on her lap. As if a sentry standing guard, the lion was on its hind legs, and it held a flag bearing a coat of arms in its forepaws. 

“Odierne Cateline Le Viste, _la duchesse de Tourney_. She’s my very-many-times great grandmother.”

Harry was clearly surprised at the fact that tapestries depicting a Malfoy were hanging in a Muggle museum. “‘ _La duchesse de Tourney_?’ A Duchess? She was a . . . ?”

“Oh, she was a witch. There’re portraits of her both in the estate here in France and the manor in England. It was her younger son, Armand, who left France and came to England. He dropped the Muggle name of Le Viste and adopted his mother’s maiden name, which was already an old Wizarding name by then.”

Harry looked back and forth between Draco and the woman in the tapestries. In spite of the centuries between them, they shared the same long, angular features, the same fair colouring. 

“A Malfoy married a Muggle?” Harry asked doubtfully. He didn’t add, “And wasn’t disowned?” but Draco was sure he was thinking it.

“This was almost two hundred years before the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, you have to remember. It was a very different world. She would’ve undoubtedly been raised with the same ideology of wizard’s superiority over Muggles I was—but money, and everything that comes along with it, is money. Before the Statute of Secrecy, securing a position of rank in the Muggle world was seen as demonstrating a family’s influence and status in both worlds. My ancestors would’ve looked upon the wealthiest and most powerful of Muggles as being beneath them, but they’d have kept their contempt behind heavily warded doors. Publicly, they’d have embraced Muggles they could gain something from. Not exactly anything to be proud of, I know.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of either,” Harry said sincerely. He slid his hands into his front pockets and looked around the room. “My dad was pretty awful to Snape when they were at Hogwarts together. I mean, really awful.” Harry went on to say he’d seen things in Snape’s mind when their former Professor had been ordered to teach him Occlumency. 

Draco didn’t mean to, but he laughed. “Snape was as powerful a wizard as your father was, I’m sure. You only saw _his_ version of events. Of course, in his memory, your father was the instigator, but don’t you doubt for a second that he gave as much as he got—and as good. He was a terrifically brave man, yes, but he was not a nice person. Or have you forgotten your Potions lessons?” As a child, Draco had thought Professor Snape’s treatment of Harry and his friends great fun, but now as an adult, he looked upon it very differently—all the more so because he himself had become a professor. One highly admirable quality did not negate an equally shameful one.

“No, I haven’t forgotten. But I have forgiven,” Harry said. Then, returning to the tapestries before Draco could comment, he remarked, “She looks very sad in this one. In all the others, she looks content.”

After a considerable pause, Draco allowed the change of subject and agreed. In his opinion, it took a great man to both forgive ill-treatment and to not look for congratulations on that forgiveness, and he knocked his hand against Harry’s, letting his fingers linger for just a second longer than necessary.

“As a young woman—here.” Draco led Harry to the tapestry depicting his ancestor in her mid to late teens. She wore a sumptuous gown in blue and gold, and on her head she wore a gold-coloured veil, her garments all embellished with jewels. A young girl held a golden bowl filled with flowers, from which Odierne was fashioning a wreath. “She fell in love with a Muggle. She’d almost certainly have been disowned by her family when their affair became known, had the man in question not been the son of a duke. His position saved her there, but her indiscretions being publicly known, her parents’ chances of arranging an appropriate marriage to a wizard had evaporated. Before the Statute of Secrecy, a family like mine might have very grudgingly accepted the marriage of a daughter—a _daughter_ , mind, never a _son_ ,—to a Muggle, provided a proper match with a wizard were not possible, and they stood to gain substantially from the marriage. His family’s position in Muggle nobility would have been enough to outweigh his being a mere Muggle to her parents, were it not for one flaw. He was a younger son. The title would not come to him upon his father’s death, but to his elder brother, and it was the elder brother to whom Odierne’s parents arranged her marriage.”

Harry was appalled. “Knowing she loved—”

“At the time, a marriage contract had nothing to do with love. Not in a family like mine—nor in a powerful Muggle family, for that matter. One married for material reasons. The Malfoys already had magic and money. What they did not have, was a title. Odierne’s parents would have viewed the introduction Muggle blood into the line as a necessary evil that over the generations would’ve been diluted enough to eventually be of no real consequence. The title, however, would remain. For their part, the man’s family may’ve wanted the power being known to have ties to a magical family would have given them amongst their contemporaries. Had they not . . . Well, Odierne’s reputation would’ve been ruined. Her place in society depended upon the marriage taking place, and her parents would’ve seen to it that it did.”

Harry looked displeased, but not shocked or judgemental, Draco was relieved to see. 

“Odierne did what any other well-born girl, witch or Muggle, would’ve done in her place. Or even a lower-born girl, I would imagine. She married the man she was told to marry. Then, after she’d done her duty and produced an heir, she discretely continued her affair with the man she loved. And if her son Armand bore a stronger resemblance to his uncle than to his father, well, no one would’ve remarked upon it. It’s not unheard of for a child to bear a stronger resemblance to another close family member than to their own parent.”

“Thank Merlin we live in a time when we can chose our own partner,” Harry said.

Draco agreed, although he didn’t believe that was really true. Were the _Daily Prophet_ to get wind of Harry’s involvement with him, nearly every owl in the British Isles would be circling above them with red envelopes tied to their legs.

.~*~.

“I think I’m going to trace my family roots when I get back to England,” Harry said later that evening as they roamed Latin Quarter’s maze of narrow, medieval streets. Walking without any direction, they’d stopped in several little shops and stumbled upon the ruins of a third century Roman amphitheatre.

“Potter, you are the most famous wizard alive today. I’m quite sure your ancestry is well documented. Both your magical and Muggle lineage.”

“Names and dates, maybe. But I want to know their stories. Like you do. Do you have any idea how cool it is that you know all that about an ancestor who lived hundreds of years ago?”

Draco shrugged. “Odierne’s an exception because of her and her son’s importance in my line of the family. It’s kind of intrusive, though. Like reading through someone’s diary. Would you want your descendants knowing your deepest secrets?”

“Perfect strangers seem to think they’ve a right to. At least my great grandchildren would have a valid claim to the interest.” Stopping to look at a shop window, he said that if he were to walk down a street in Muggle London with a man like this, he’d have to cast privacy charms over them both, or there’d likely be a full exposé on his every movement in the _Daily Prophet_ the following morning. Worse, if he wasn’t careful about who he went out with, the exposé could be accompanied by direct commentary. “You have no idea how nice it is to not have to worry about anything, to be able to just enjoy being out with someone.”

.~*~.

That night, whilst Harry slept, Draco lay next to him, looking at him. He’d never felt the desire to just lie next to a lover and look at his face as he slept before, but with Harry he did. The contrast between the pure black of Harry’s hair and the paleness of his skin, the pink of his lips, his eyelashes and brows, the coarse hairs along his jaw . . . Draco didn’t know why, but he thought he could lie next to Harry for hours and just look at him, and when Harry’s eyes began to move behind his closed lids, Draco wondered what he was dreaming.

He didn’t need to wonder long. Almost immediately Harry began to thrash about, and he shot up, sitting up straight and gasping for breath, as if he’d been underwater for too long. His eyes were open wide, and his arm stretched out, desperately trying to reach something.

Reacting immediately, Draco grabbed hold of him and pulled him against his chest. Harry’s hand gripped Draco’s arm so tightly, his nails dug painfully into his skin. “It’s alright. It’s just a nightmare.” Draco knew all about nightmares, and he laid his cheek on the top of Harry’s head and rocked him slowly as he caught his breath, all the while telling him the nightmare was over and tracing random patterns on his back. 

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Harry said. His vice-like grip on Draco’s arm relaxed, but he did not move from his embrace. 

“I was awake already.” 

“You were gone. Your hand slipped from mine, and when I reached down for you again, you were gone. There was nothing but flames and smoke where you’d been. You were gone.” 

Draco tightened his grip and kissed the top of Harry’s head.

.~*~.

Harry had trouble concentrating during his practices on Tuesday. Even after all these years, the morning after one of his nightmares was always rough, but this time, he thought, was not quite as bad as other times. Maybe because he had something to focus his attention on. He couldn’t dwell on whichever nightmare he’d relived the night before.

Or maybe it was because he’d woken up to someone who understood. Maybe, this time, it wasn’t the nightmare making it hard for him to concentrate. Harry was afraid it hadn’t been a coincidence that it was the fire in the Room of Requirement he’d dreamt of last night. It was Tuesday. He only had four days left to spend with Draco before he would have to leave. 

“Are you well, _Monsieur_ Potter?” Émilie asked. She’d been giving him concerned looks all morning.

“Fine,” he answered, trying to keep his voice light. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

.~*~.

Tuesday afternoon, rather than returning to Paris, Draco and Harry travelled to the Loire Valley and spent the afternoon sampling wines and wondering aimlessly through the streets of Amboise and along the bank of the Loire River. They visited the _Château du Clos Lucé_ , where Leonardo Da Vinci spent the last three years of his life, and saw several working models of his inventions. Draco had only known of Da Vinci’s paintings, and he listened to what Harry read aloud from the English language brochure. Afterwards, they walked through the _Parc Leonardo da Vinci_ and watched multi-coloured hot air balloons drift overhead.

“They’ve got a fire in the basket, did you know?” Draco asked as Harry got a shot of a balloon passing over the _Château_. “I saw one up close once, preparing to take off.”

Harry lowered his camera. “Well, of course, they’ve got a fire. They’re hot air balloons.”

“Can’t be safe, that. And it’s up above the basket itself. The flame actually shoots up inside the balloon. What good they think it’s going to do against the cold—”

Draco paused mid-sentence when Harry gaped at him. Harry bit his lips as they fought to spread into a grin. 

“What?” Draco asked. 

“The fire is what makes the balloon fly.”

“What are you talking about, the fire is what makes the balloon fly? What’s a fire got to do with—”

“Well, how do you think they fly?”

“Well, they . . . they . . .” 

Harry’s smile broke free at the confused look on Draco’s face—how do Muggle hot air balloons fly? Harry hadn’t studied very much Muggle science, but this he did remember from his Muggle primary school. Seeing the photos of several hot air balloons filling the sky in his text book, the idea of flying had fascinated him. Rather funny, that, now he looked back on it.

“Alright, then. How do Muggles use fire to fly?” Draco asked, folding his arms in front of himself. 

“It’s very simple, really. Hot air weighs less than cold air. It’s basic Muggle science.”

“You expect me to believe hot air weighs less than cold air? It’s still _air_ , Potter. Air doesn’t _weigh_ anything—it’s _air_.”

.~*~.

That night, satisfied and spent, Harry crawled across the mattress and flopped down on his pillow, one arm spread across the sheets and the other hanging off the edge of the bed. His muscles ached, and he had a cramp in his side, but it had been worth it. He’d seen that position in porn movies before, and he’d fantasised about trying it, but he’d never had the nerve. With Draco, though, he never felt any of the self-consciousness that had always stopped him in the past. He rolled over and stretched from head to foot, arching his back and groaning.

Draco lay sprawled out at the foot of the bed. He’d yet to move from the spot where he’d fallen. “That . . . was brilliant,” he said between breaths. 

Harry nudged him with his foot. “Come up here.” He yawned, his eyes already falling shut. His body heavy with the lethargy that comes after fantastic sex, Harry wanted nothing more than to sink into the blankets and sleep. 

“Can’t be arsed to move. Staying here,” Draco whispered, sounding half asleep already.

Harry raised himself up to his hands and knees. He grabbed a couple pillows and crawled to the bottom of the bed. Dropping the pillows, he pulled the blanket down from the top of the bed, and Draco lifted himself up enough to lay his head on the pillow as Harry wrapped the blanket around them.

.~*~.

On Wednesday, the students in Harry’s practice sessions were so hyper, one would’ve thought their breakfast had consisted of a large bag of sugar and a spoon. This would be their last morning of practices—tomorrow, they’d play matches, and they were buzzing with excitement.

As much as Harry enjoyed seeing their enthusiasm, he couldn’t share it. Every morning he woke up next to Draco he was one morning closer to waking up alone. As much as he loved his cottage, his bed was going to seem awfully big Saturday morning.

.~*~.

That afternoon, they visited Strasbourg, near the German border.

“We are still in France, aren’t we?” Harry asked. To look at the surrounding buildings, he’d have guessed they’d crossed into Germany, even the name—Strasbourg—was decidedly not-French. 

“Historically, the region was Alemannic-speaking,” Draco said after Harry commented on the city’s non-French sounding name, adding that control of the area had repeatedly passed from one power to another during its two thousand year history.

Harry wondered if that was something he’d learnt from his former lover, but he pushed the thought aside, not wanting a dark cloud to dampen their time together.

The first thing they’d done was to visit the _Cathédrale Notre Dame de Strasbourg_ , where he’d got some gorgeous pictures from the tower overlooking the city and of the stunning mediaeval stained-glass windows illuminated by the sun, before spending a couple of hours roaming around the _Palais Rohan_ museum. They’d crossed a river, just as an open-air sightseeing boat passed beneath the bridge, and walked to a wonderfully picturesque neighbourhood of half-timber buildings with overflowing window boxes. The buildings lined both sides of a canal and reflected on the water’s surface, and baskets of cascading pink and white flowers hung from railings at the edge of the pavement. Harry couldn’t believe a setting so charming could exist outside of an illustrated children’s storybook.

Standing at the railing and looking down at the buildings’ reflections, he remarked, “I expect to see Hansel and Gretel any minute.”

“Who are Hansel and Gretel?” Draco asked.

“Characters from a Muggle children’s story.” He rubbed his hands together, and with his eyes still on the water, he said, “This week, it’s been pretty brilliant.”

“Yeah. Yeah it has,” Draco agreed softly.

They stood together, quietly watching the water for neither knew how long, both content to just stand there, lost in his own thoughts. 

Nearby, a sightseeing boat passed through the open gates of one of the locks that controlled the water levels throughout the canals. Draco and Harry walked towards the lock and watched as the solid wooden gates closed behind the boat and those at the far end began to allow water to rush in. Within the lock, the water level was a good metre and half lower than on the other side of the far gates, and the deluge of water pouring in instantly turned the calm canal into a swirling torrent. The raging force of the water, and the noise it made, were awesome and reminded Harry of news reports in the Muggle media of flash floods. By contrast, the surface of the water on the other side, the deep side, was so smooth a pair of ducks swam within feet of the gates. It was surprising just how quickly the water level in the lock climbed, and Harry watched as the boat rose higher and higher. When the water within the lock was at the same level as the water on the other side of the gates, they slowly opened to allow the boat to pass on. It had taken maybe five minutes at the most.

Looking down at his hands, Draco said, “It was awful, being confronted with the reality of the Muggle world. Their ingenuity and accomplishments, their art and music.” He shook his head, his eyes still on his hands. “Every word I’d been taught my entire life was a lie. None of it was true. It was hard to accept. So much pain, so many killed . . . And all of it for lies.”

Harry felt Draco’s words deeply, but he didn’t respond. What could be said? He touched the back of Draco’s hand, and the other man looked up at him briefly before turning his eyes down towards the water.

Eventually, they moved on from their once-again quiet spot beside the canal and idly roamed the cobblestone streets as they had done other times.

“I think I’d like to do a bit of travelling once Teddy starts Hogwarts next year,” Harry said as they moved from one shopfront to the next. “This is the first time I’ve ever travelled anywhere, really. I mean, other than just taking Teddy somewhere for the day or to the beach for the weekend, or something like that.” 

The idea of travelling alone held little appeal for Harry. He’d enjoyed seeing the places they’d visited together because he’d enjoyed being with Draco—hard as that would be for anyone who knew him to believe. He remembered how many times he’d thought to himself when he’d first arrived that Draco was attractive, but _of course_ he wasn’t Harry’s type. That was what he’d thought before he’d spent any time with Draco. Now that he had, Harry was beginning to think that Draco was exactly his type. It had been Harry’s idea of what his type was that had been wrong.

He glanced at Draco. They still had Thursday and at least part of Friday, but this would likely be the last time they went somewhere together like this. None of their days had been pre-planned. He’d finished his morning practices and Draco’d finished whatever tasks he had that day, and they’d simply found each other and gone somewhere. Draco hadn’t mentioned anything, but there were Quidditch matches planned all day Thursday and the first half of the day on Friday before a big farewell picnic on the palace’s grounds Friday night. During the matches, Harry reckoned Draco would be expected to be onsite. And Harry would want to watch Teddy’s matches, of course. Each child got to play in three matches, according to the schedule Draco had worked out: two on Thursday and one on Friday. 

“You really don’t think you’ll ever want to go back to England?” Harry asked reluctantly, already knowing the answer. “What about the manor?”

Draco looked at him, then looked away. He turned to Harry again, something appraising and slightly defensive in his eyes and voice. “I suppose the Gryffindor in you thinks anyone with proper feeling should want to go back and reclaim their childhood and ancestral home.”

“Not at all,” Harry said categorically. That had been the first time there had been anything even approaching rancour between them since he’d arrived. “Not if it’s not what you want. I think the biggest mistake a person can make is letting anyone persuade them into what they think their _proper feeling_ should be. And I should know, because it’s a mistake I made when I tried to stick out Auror training. All of wizarding society wanted to see me as an Auror, so I tried to make myself believe it was what I wanted, before Molly and Arthur sat me down.”

Their eyes had held each other’s as Harry’d spoken, and they continued for several seconds afterwards, until Draco turned away.

“How very philosophical,” he said.

Harry smirked. “I have my moments.”

“It isn’t what I want,” Draco said quietly. “To ever go back to England. Everything that for you is in England, for me is in France.”

They stopped in front of a souvenir shop neither of them actually looked at.

“So, er, Friday,” Harry began, about to ask another question he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to spoil another otherwise perfect evening, but pretending he wouldn’t be leaving in roughly forty eight hours wouldn’t buy them more time, and he’d have to ask eventually anyway. Best get it over with, like needing to take a particularly nasty potion. Then he could not think of it again and just enjoy what little time he had left with Draco. “When do I need to . . . How do I . . . ?”

“You’re welcome to stay at the palace Friday night, if you’d like,” Draco said in a flat, empty voice. “No point in leaving on Friday only to return to collect Teddy on Saturday.”

Harry nodded his agreement. He would leave with Teddy and the other British students on Saturday. That settled, he resolved to put it out of his mind.

“Perhaps tomorrow night we could have dinner at _l’Hotel de la Rose Rouge_ ,” Draco suggested, animation returning to his voice. 

This was the first time they’d made plans beforehand. The idea of deliberately planning something, even something as small as dinner, was exciting. 

“The view of the Eiffel Tower and the _Arc de Triomphe_ illuminated at night . . .”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed readily. “Sounds good.”

.~*~.

Thursday morning was the start of the Quidditch matches. Half the teams would play at nine o’clock and the other half at eleven. Unlike official Quidditch matches, the matches would end after an hour and a half maximum. Given the ages of the players and the number of matches needed to be played, a time limit was necessary. Because the kids would be on different schedules with their matches, lunch would be served in two seatings between noon and half past two. Then, the afternoon matches would begin at two for the first group and four for the second. It was going to be a very busy day and a half, and Draco was looking forward to getting away with Harry for a bit that evening. 

“Teddy looks excited about his first match,” Draco observed during breakfast. The boy’s head of bright orange hair stood out, easy to spot from deep within the sea of nine and ten year olds leaning across tables and each other, talking and laughing eagerly. 

“I’m sure he is,” Harry answered. “I haven’t talked to him. I want him to have this experience without me hanging over his shoulder. And, er,” he looked poignantly at Draco, “I’ve been keeping rather busy myself.”

Draco grinned in response, remembering how busy they’d been an hour ago.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry said.

“Merlin save us all.”

“Shut it, you. I’ve been thinking the Cannons could host something like this next summer. What I have in mind is much smaller, mind. Just something during the day. Maybe younger kids, too young for something residential. They could Floo in. I’ve been wanting to create a Community department to organise different activities for Cannons supporters—”

“Now that they’ve got something to support,” Draco murmured into his coffee cup.

Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard. “I think something like this would go over well.”

“I wouldn’t have thought the Cannons had that many retired star players,” Draco observed as he helped himself to more omelette. “Would they be teaching the children, or would the children be teaching them?”

Harry threatened to stab him in the arm with his fork but admitted he was thinking more along the lines of the up-and-coming players they had working with the trainers and coaches. “We’ve got some real talent, I think. The kids could work with players they’d be seeing play professionally in a couple of years.”

“So, let me get this straight.” Draco held out his hand and ticked items off on his fingers as spoke. “You’re going to study both photography and French. And travel. And create a new department and organise a Quidditch day school for children. Anything else?”

“I don’t think you quite grasp just how little I’ve got to do anymore. I’ve never not had things to do—whether it was Auror training, or training and playing for the Cannons, then negotiating the purchase of the team and rebuilding it. And of course, there’s been Teddy to keep me busy. I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself after he goes off to Hogwarts next year.”

.~*~.

After breakfast, Draco left to check that everything was set for the first round of matches, and Harry made his way down to where the British kids were sitting, to wish them luck, just as other former players were doing with the kids from their respective countries. 

Teddy and his friends were excited, but they were disappointed none of them had got onto the same team. They were also nervous, Harry could tell, but trying not to show it in front of each other, which made him grin. “Let me tell you about my first Quidditch match at Hogwarts,” Harry said, and eagerly, the kids made room for him on the bench. “I was so panicked, I thought I’d be sick watching one of my friends putting ketchup on his sausages at breakfast that morning. It was Gryffindor versus Slytherin, and our team captain was called Oliver Wood . . . ” 

After talking with the kids for a bit, Harry walked around the palace’s elaborately manicured gardens. Beauxbatons was different from Hogwarts in many ways, but it was similar in many ways, too, and Harry had come to feel very comfortable there during his nearly two week stay. He’d enjoyed himself. Of course, the wholly unexpected . . . _thing_ that had popped up between himself and Draco had a great deal to do with that—a very great deal—but not everything. He’d enjoyed working with the kids more than he had enjoyed doing anything since he’d flown in his last Quidditch match with the Cannons. 

Harry did like the idea of developing the Quidditch school he’d told Draco about. Maybe he could even do some of the coaching . . . but, of course, if he did that, he’d likely have full grown witches and wizards trying to de-age themselves to enrol. Harry sighed. It was amazing just how fast he got used to the anonymity he’d found in France. 

He’d got used to more than just enjoying anonymity. He’d also got used to falling asleep next to someone night after night. Harry’d had a string of relationships, but none of them had ever progressed to the point where either he or his partner’d had a drawer of their things at the other’s place. He’d meant what he’d said to Draco last week in his hotel room in Paris—he really did hate sleeping alone after sex. But, until now, that was more often than not what had happened. It was strange, but Harry found sleeping next to someone much more intimate than having sex with them. It was the absolute vulnerability of it, he reckoned.

Harry sat on a bench and dropped his head into his hands. He had a life that he was quite happy with waiting for him back in England. He had his family and friends, and a job he mostly liked, even if he couldn’t say he really loved it. He didn’t have everything he wanted, but he had a hell of a lot. He should be looking forward to getting back to his life, but he wasn’t. He shouldn’t be feeling as strong a pull to be with Draco as to be with everyone he loved back in England, but he was. And quite frankly, what that might mean scared him.

.~*~.

If the view from the top of rooftop terrace at the _Hotel de la Rose Rouge_ was impressive during the day, it was even more so as the sun began to set. Although the day had stayed dry at Beauxbatons, it had rained in Paris. However, that had been hours ago, and the clouds had largely broken up. Directly above them, the sky was purple streaked with clouds painted pink by the setting sun, and all around them the lights of Paris glittered. The Eiffel Tower and the _Arc de Triomphe_ were illuminated, and in the distance, the _Sacre Coeur_ gleamed bright white. It was stunning. 

“Émilie and her uncle were right,” Harry remarked. “The hour before sunset, the light is like gold.”

Draco agreed. 

That had been their evening so far. Observations or causal remarks. Small talk they forced themselves to carry on to fill awkward silences. Harry hated it. 

“Teddy flew well,” Draco said.

“Yes, he did.” 

Teddy’s team had split their matches, winning the first and losing the second. The other two Beaters were a girl from France and a boy from Norway. They’d worked well together, in spite of never having played together before. But both games had ultimately been decided by who caught the Snitch, and that had disappointed Teddy, Harry thought.

“He seems to really like Chasing, but I think he’s looking forward to Seeking tomorrow, too. I think he wants that moment, you know, one on one, just you and the other Seeker racing after the Snitch, throwing your hand up in the air with the Snitch in your fist and hearing all the cheers.”

Draco looked wistful as he agreed. “That’s a great feeling.” He looked at Harry, his head tilted a bit to one side. “What was it like? Playing professionally, I mean. I’m sorry if it a sore subject—” he hastened to add, but Harry cut him off.

“It’s okay,” Harry said. He wouldn’t have cared to talk about his short-lived professional career in the immediate aftermath of it ending—though Merlin knew the _Daily Prophet_ had offered him enough Galleons to fill the Great Hall at Hogwarts for his story—but it had been years now. “It was brilliant. There’s no other word. The stadiums are enormous—you know how big they are—and they’re packed with people. Of course, playing for the Cannons, at least at first, most of those people were supporting the other team. But you know what? That made winning all the more fun. The only thing better than making people scream is shutting them up when they’re screaming for the other team.”

Draco laughed.

This was much better, Harry thought, and he sat back in his chair and relaxed. This was how they’d grown accustomed to talking with each other, and while he didn’t want what they’d begun to end, if it had to, this was how he wanted it to end—how it had begun in the first place. 

“You know. I’m just realising, I still haven’t seen the Louvre. Not properly.” They’d seen several smaller museums, but he hadn’t seen anything of what was possibly the most famous museum in the world, at least apart from his first rather pathetic attempt at a visit.

“Well, that won’t do at all. You can’t go back to England not having seen the Louvre. No one will believe you spent two weeks in France. We’ll go tomorrow, after the matches, before the picnic.”

.~*~.

The first thing Draco became aware of as he drifted into consciousness Friday morning was Harry’s mouth moving across his shoulder. The second thing was Harry’s fingers tracing circles low on his stomach. The third was that he only had one more morning of waking up next to Harry. Forcing the thought from his mind, he focused on the feeling of Harry’s mouth and fingers, wanting to freeze every last moment into his memory. Perhaps he’d been a fool to ever start this, but no matter how much the thought of watching Harry board that carriage tomorrow morning made his insides seize up, he couldn’t regret accepting Harry’s invitation to go up to his hotel room a week ago. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but at some point he’d started falling in love with the man lying behind him. Draco’s chest and throat felt tight, and they burned, but he wouldn’t give up the time they’d shared to spare himself the pain of watching that carriage take off carrying the only man he’d ever felt this way for. 

Draco rolled onto his back, and Harry moved over him. Their hands slid over the other’s body, and they kissed, long, slow, lazy, desperate kisses that were unlike anything they’d shared before, and when Harry joined them together, Draco’s legs wrapped around him, holding him close. He wanted to store his memory of this moment in a Pensieve so that he wouldn’t forget a single touch. Afterwards, when the lay tangled together, still kissing, the words Draco couldn’t let himself say burned in his throat.

.~*~.

Leaving his rooms with Draco Friday morning, Harry’s legs felt heavy, as if his bones had been replaced with lead rods. Holding Draco that morning while the other man still slept, Harry had come to a terrible realisation. Or maybe he’d just come to accept the realisation he’d already made. Last week when Draco had asked him why there was no one waiting for him back in England, Harry had responded that he’d know the right man when he found him. He knew now that he had found him. He had found the right man for him in the last man he would have ever suspected and in a man he could not keep. Draco had made it perfectly clear he had no interest in ever returning to England. 

Draco looked at him but quickly looked away. Harry grinned although he felt anything but happy. Draco did that a lot, he’d noticed—look at him quickly then just as quickly look away. 

“Madame Maxime is coming after breakfast,” Draco said. “She’s coming to watch the last morning of matches, and she’ll stay for the picnic tonight.” His voice sounded different than it had other times, vacant, like he was thinking one thing and making himself say something else. 

Feeling much like that himself, Harry asked, “Is she? I’ll have to find her and say hello.”

.~*~.

After breakfast, Draco led Harry through the palace to Madame Maxime’s office. 

“She’ll be glad to see you,” Draco said. 

The Headmistress’s office was high up in a tower in the opposite side of the palace from the dining hall, so Harry got the Beauxbatons grand tour. Much like Hogwarts, the corridors were wide with tall ceilings, walls covered with portraits, and large oak doors to the classrooms.

“It’s a beautiful school,” Harry observed. 

“It is,” Draco agreed.

An idea occurred to Harry. “The racing teams, you said there were short and long distance and a relay?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of an obstacle course? Like the one Émilie flew, but a less difficult course. Do you think the kids would like that?”

“They’d race one at a time,” Draco picked up Harry’s line of thought. “Against a clock. Then best time wins.”

“Exactly.”

“I do think they’d like it. They’re mostly all here, aside from a few who couldn’t make it. You can ask them at lunch, before we go to Paris.”

“They’re your students. I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“It was your idea,” Draco insisted, adding again that he thought Harry would’ve made a good professor.

“Hogwarts has a flying instructor. Madame Hooch retired a few years ago, and Roger Davies took the post.” Roger was only a couple of years older than they were, so it wasn’t likely he’d be retiring any time soon. Besides, as much as Harry loved Hogwarts, he couldn’t picture working there.

.~*~.

Harry walked back towards the castle after Teddy’s match Friday morning with his eyes on the ground, lost in his thoughts. His steps slowed until he came to a stop. He stood for some length of time in contemplation until he began to walk once more, slowly at first, but with every step he took his pace grew more determined and urgent until he fairly sprinted up the steps to the palace. 

.~*~.

Draco didn’t know where Harry’d got to. Earlier, they’d gone together to the pitch where Teddy’s last match was held, but Draco’d had to leave to visit the other matches being played. When he’d returned, the match had already ended with Teddy having caught the Snitch, and Harry was nowhere to be seen. Draco finished making his rounds, checking in a second time on the remaining matches still being played, thinking that maybe Harry’d gone with Teddy to watch one of the other matches, but he’d yet to find him anywhere. 

Walking towards the palace, Draco saw Émilie with some of her friends talking to a group of Polish students about the matches they’d played in. When she saw him walking towards her, Émilie excused herself from the group and met him.

“ _Oui, Monsieur_ ,” Émilie responded when Draco asked if she’d seen Mr Potter recently. “ _Il y a vingt minutes, environ. Il était en train de monter les marches du palais en courant_ ,” she said, indicating where she’d seen Harry. “ _Est-ce que tout va bien_?” she asked, adding that she’d called out to Harry, but she didn’t think he’d heard her.

“ _Il courait_?” Draco asked. 

“ _Oui, Monsieur_.”

“ _Merci_ ” Draco said before rushing off in the direction Émilie had indicated. He heard Émilie ask him again if everything was alright and heard her footfalls as she came after him. Draco didn’t know what reason Harry could have for running into the palace other than if a child had got hurt, but Draco’d been to all the pitches and there had been no accidents. Had something happened not involving the matches being played? One of the students who’d played earlier in the morning? Or one of his own Beauxbatons students? Or Teddy? Imagining the worst, Draco made straight for the school’s hospital wing. 

He hurried up two flights of stairs taking two at a time and turned into a corridor, where he ran right straight into Harry, coming from the opposite direction.

Out of breath, Draco began to ask, “What—happened—” but his words were cut off when Harry grabbed him and kissed him, nearly knocking him off his feet and pushing him up against the corridor wall. Lost in the kiss as he always was with Harry, everything else was forgotten, and Draco melted against him.

A small giggle partially disguised as a cough interrupted them. “ _Excusez moi_ , _Messieurs_ ,” Émilie said, ducking and turning her head discretely, her hand covering her mouth. She hurried off, the sound of soft, girlish giggling following her.

“Weren’t you the one who was worried about corrupting my students?” Draco asked.

Harry pressed his forehead against Draco’s and ran his hands down his arms. “I don’t think we surprised her. Actually, I think she’s been hoping for this since last Monday.” He kissed Draco again, his hands cupped around his face.

“We really can’t do this here,” Draco said. “But if you’d care to continue somewhere else . . . ?”

“I’m mad about you.”

Draco’s throat felt tight. They’d never spoken about how they felt about the other before.

“I talked to Madame Maxime,” Harry said next.

Draco was sure he hadn’t heard Harry right. Why on Earth would he mention Madame Maxime right at that moment? “Madame Maxime?” he asked slowly, trying to think what Harry might really have said that he’d misheard.

“I couldn’t remember the way to her office. It took a while to find it, but one of the portraits helped me.”

Draco felt like he’d missed a few minutes of conversation. “Why did you need to find Madame Maxime so urgently you went running into the palace?” 

“I asked if I could apply for the Muggle Studies post after Madame Canfield’s term ends.”

“You . . . what?” 

“I asked about the Muggle Studies post,” Harry repeated. “I’m as qualified as anyone else. I grew up in a Muggle house, and I know all about electricity and euros. Muggle transportation and communication and their technology.” 

Draco felt like his heart had jumped into his throat, and he couldn’t breathe around it. Was Harry really saying what Draco though he was saying? “You . . . don’t speak French.” 

“Yeah, she brought that up, too. It’s a problem, but I’ve got a year. I can learn.”

Harry was really talking about staying in France. Draco’s mouth was dry. He had a feeling something like pins and needles from head to foot. He tried to remain calm, but inside he was jumping up and down like a child on Christmas morning. “Learning a new language well enough to be able to speak and understand it comfortably is no small task,” he said. “It’d take a lot of work. A year is not a lot of time.”

“I’d have to spend a lot of time practicing. Completely immerse myself in it. Luckily, I know someone I think could help.”

“You’re serious,” Draco said. Harry was saying he’d asked about taking up a post that would require him to live in France at least for the school year. Draco knew it, but he couldn’t quite make himself believe it yet. “What about the Cannons?”

“Any meetings I need to be involved in, I can participate in via international Floo, but if it comes to it, I can sell them.”

“You’d really leave England and live in France?” _With me?_ , Draco wanted to add, but didn’t. He felt a bit giddy, and he rather wished there were something he could lean against. The corridor felt like it had gone all wobbly. 

Harry breathed deeply and looked directly into Draco’s eyes. With barely controlled emotion, he said, “If I have a reason to.” 

“Everyone you love is in England.”

Harry shook his head. “Not everyone.”

 _Not everyone . . ._ Had Harry just said . . . ? Had he really just said . . . ?

“Look, Draco. I know this is madness. I know it’s only been two weeks—not even two weeks. And I know real life is not travelling someplace different every afternoon and having bloody brilliant sex every night—and morning. I know if we really do do this, word will get out and when it does there’ll be hell to pay—for both of us—from people who think they’ve got some right to tell me how I should live my life, but I know how I feel about you. I know it’s sudden, and I know it’s mad. I know everyone we know will think we’ve lost our minds. And maybe I have. But I also know I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to be with you. If that means picking up and moving to France, then, then so be it. Turns out, we’re wizards. Floo to Paris, Portkey to England, and I can visit everyone I love there anytime I want. But that doesn’t work the other way around, not for the kind of relationship I want.”

Harry closed his eyes and breathed in and out. 

When he opened his eyes, Draco thought he might drown in them. 

“If we try it and doesn’t work out, then so be it. I finish out my term then go back to England, and you stay in France. But I need your answer. Do I have a reason to stay or not?”

Draco couldn’t speak at first. The words were there, trying to fight their way through the tightness in his throat, and when they finally broke through, he'd have expect them to be shouted, but they came out as such a hoarse whisper, Draco himself scarcely heard them. “Yes,” he said, then repeated it over and over, each time they grew stronger. “Yes, yes, yes.” 

Harry’s body sagged as if a tremendous strain had just been relaxed. “Say that again,” he requested. “I want to make sure I heard it right.”

“Yes,” Draco said placing a kiss on Harry’s lips. He began to laugh like he was drunk. “ _Oui_ ,” he said again, kissing the corner of Harry’s mouth. “ _Oui_.” He ran the tip of his nose along Harry’s jaw. “ _Oui_ ,” he whispered to his ear. “ _Oui_.”

.~*~.

In a villa in _la Côte d'Azur_ , several photographs lined the top of a mantelpiece and covered the walls. The photos captured special events and everyday moments of no particular importance to anyone other than those who called the villa home. Taking pride of place in the centre of it all, one photo stood in a silver frame. This particular photo had been taken before any of the others, and in it, two men sat sharing a table on a terrace overlooking an idyllic mountain lake. The men weren’t looking at lake, though. They were looking at each other, and they were smiling. 

**Author's Note:**

> There it is! Thanks for reading! I hope you all liked it! 
> 
> With the exception of the wizarding destinations, all the places Harry and Draco visit are real, and I tried to describe them as accurately as possible. 
> 
> All of the pictures Harry and Draco see at the _Musée Carnavalet_ are real, but the only one I know for sure it at the museum is the one of _Notre Dame_ for the wedding of Napoleon. You can see it on their website. 
> 
> The tapestries they see at the _Musée de Cluny_ are real. They were woven around the turn of the sixteen century and are called “The Lady and the Unicorn.” Five depict the five senses, and the sixth one is called, “A Mon Seul Desir” (“To My Only Desire”). The woman in the tapestries really does have rather Malfoy-ish features, which gave me the idea to make her an ancestor of Draco’s. It is unknown who the woman is, but I gave her the name Odierne Cateline Le Viste, _la duchesse de Tourney_. Odierne—an Old French form of a Germanic name, probably composed of the elements _od_ "riches, wealth, fortune" and _gern_ "eager, desiring." It sounded like an appropriately Malfoy name. Le Viste is the surname of the noble family believed to have commissioned the tapestries, and her title was taken from a noble family rescued by the Scarlet Pimpernel, but they were a Count and Countess, not a Duke and Duchess. In the movies, these tapestries cover the walls of the Gryffindor common room. Once I read that, I absolutely had to include them. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome, either here or on [LiveJournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/107959.html).


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